


Overlord

by Dementian



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Electrocution, Hearing Voices, M/M, Mind Meld, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 65,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21795227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dementian/pseuds/Dementian
Summary: Commissioned by an anonymous AO3 viewer. When Charles Carson experiences a shocking turn of events, he must come to turns with being a sentinel in a changing world. This would be difficult enough, but unfortunately for him his guide happens to be the one person he hates the most: Thomas Barrow.
Relationships: Charles Carson/Elsie Hughes, Thomas Barrow/Charles Carson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 100





	1. A Shocking Discussion

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a commission, and takes place immediately after the events of S8E6. Because of this, it will not include subtext from the movie. Now that the commission is finished, I am going to start working on a Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis/Chris Webster fic. Look for updates soon!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for **electrocution**

The key to being a successful butler, in Charles Carson’s mind, was knowing which battles to pick. He had long since decided to front several campaigns against poorly ironed tablecloths, wine in need of decanting, and silver goblets that ought to shine even when in storage. But there was one battle that he’d given up for lost so long ago that his white flag had been left to rot and crumble. He currently sat surveying the battle ground with dismay, wondering at the state of the kitchen while Beryl Patmore squawked and squalled at the state of her electrical wiring. 

Charles had no desire to get near Beryl when she was in a rage. She was, to date, his only lost battle. 

“I can’t be expected to work like this!” Beryl squalled, jiggling the handles of her dead mixer as if hoping they might spring back to life. Overhead, dusty copper wires open to the air swayed ominously. “If we’re going to rely on ekletricity, it ought to work!” 

“Electricity,” Elsie corrected her. Beryl looked ready to have a stroke. 

“Whatever it’s called, it’s a  _ lie!”  _

Charles let out an exhausted sigh, wondering when this blasted day would ever end. 

With Lord and Lady Grantham scheduled to take tea at Beryl’s house of horrors, and Thomas Barrow recovering from suicide in the attics, Charles could not imagine anything worse that might befall the family. He hated the idea of scandal and felt like Downton Abbey was dancing upon the edge of a hot knife. If anyone found out Lord Grantham was taking tea at the adulterer’s table, what would they say? The papers would be askance with gossip; oh, Charles would never hear the end of it! 

But even worse a thought, what if someone found out about Barrow? 

Charles had told no one, but he’d had nightmares as of late of all the wicked ways that Barrow could have ended his life. He’d dreamt of finding Thomas hanging from a chandelier on the main floor; of Thomas floating lifeless in the outer laying pond, of Thomas blue on the floor with an empty bottle of lye laying in his hand and blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. 

Awful, horrid things. 

He’d made the fatal error of imagining Barrow didn’t have a heart; but who could blame him? After years of scheming, conniving, blisteringly rude comments, and apathetic replies, Charles had been unable to find a scant trace of emotion within the man. 

_ That’s a lie…  _ a nasty voice whispered inside his head. 

Charles grimaced at the memory of Barrow before him, trembling and weak in his office, head bowed as he admitted to loving another man.

Imagine… the sodding nerve of it! 

But even as Charles tried to work himself into a temper, tried to give himself a basis for hating Barrow so that his self-hatred might dwindle away, Charles found an ugly sort of pity eating at his rage. 

Did he really care? Really and truly? 

Because if Charles were entirely honest, there was another reason entirely Barrow’s sexuality made him so uncomfortable. Nights, hidden away in a London theatre, when he’d been young a whole… things that had slipped through his moral defenses, slicked up by the wicked ways of alcohol. Things he’d never admitted to, not even to his wife. 

“- Charlie?” 

Charles gave a start, looking about at Elsie who was watching him concernedly. Across the kitchen, Beryl was now belligerently yanking the connector chord to the beater in and out of the copper wiring in the hope that something should start. 

“Mrs. Patmore, if you please-“ Charles called out; Beryl froze, head whipping around on her meaty neck. “You’re frightening the maids.” 

“Would you rather me frighten the family when their dinner is uncooked?” Mrs. Patmore demanded. Somewhere off in the distance, the bell board began to ring. Charles looked over his shoulder, noted Andrew heading for the stairs, and returned his attention to Beryl.

“Copper wires are not play toys, if the beater is broken then you’ll simply have to make do without-“ 

“If I couldn’t use the beater then I should have started the mousse hours ago!” Beryl complained. “I can’t stand these blasted contraptions!” 

She gave the beater up for lost, shoving it away down the counter line to instead yank out a large ceramic bowl and a large whisk. 

“Gertie! Get me the eggs from the larder!” Beryl commanded, “As many as you can grab!” 

The scullery maid skirted away, practically carrying a haze of dust around her for all the filth on her day dress and apron. Daisy, having watched all this with light irritation, began to clear away counter space so that they might begin making a mousse by hand. 

Yet despite the urgency of a mousse going unprepared, Charles found himself unable to focus. Dreams were nothing compared to reality, and the ugly image of Barrow nearly dead upon his bed with slit wrists wrapped in thin gauze now haunted him like the spectre of Christmas Future. 

_ You did that to him,  _ a nasty voice whispered in his head. 

There were, in fact, many people that Charles could try to blame if he so wanted, but his moral conscience was so strong that it did not allow him to pass the pain to another man. He’d been too sharp with Barrow, he knew that now. He’d imagined Barrow hadn’t cared, that he’d had some scheme tucked up one sleeve or another. That he’d slip away from Downton Abbey in the middle of the night like a rat abandoning a sinking ship. 

Now, Charles could see that he’d been wrong, terribly, terribly wrong. Thomas hadn’t been a rat, he’d been a passenger being cast out without a life vest upon frigid and churning waters. 

_ “If I could just be sure,”  _ Charles had seethed, imagining that Thomas was violating an innocent youth. 

It had never occurred to him, not even once, that Thomas himself was the innocent youth. He saw Thomas now not as a man but as a boy, staring up into the infinite universe that stretched out before him wondering where his place was. In some ways, Downton Abbey might have been a prison to Thomas, but it was also a fortress that protected him from a very cruel world. 

Sighing, Charles bowed his head, twiddling with his fingers behind his back. A slight tremble ran through them. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Charles jerked, as if from a sudden snooze, to find Elsie staring at him concernedly. While the others were consumed with keeping the house running, she alone had noticed his maudlin slip. 

Charles tried to warn her off with a polite if terse smile. It only served to annoy her further. 

“You can tell me, you know,” She urged. “I am your wife.” She said it as if Charles himself had forgotten. 

“... I don’t know what to do with him,” Charles muttered under his breath. Elsie leaned in close so that she might hear where the others could not. “As irritating as Thomas is, his zest for life4 made him a sharp employee. Now?” Charles shook his head, looking up at the ceiling over his head. Thomas had been drifting like a spectre through the halls. “There’s nothing to him anymore.” 

But instead of offering a solution or sympathy, Elsie grew wary. She’d developed this odd edge where Thomas was concerned, seemingly wary of leaving Charles alone with him; it wasn’t hard to imagine why. Though no one pointed the finger at his person, it was obvious that those who knew the truth knew the reason for Thomas’ downfall. It had all been funny, such a grand joke, until Thomas had cracked beneath the pressure. 

Beneath Charles’ pressure. 

“Let him alone,” Elsie warned him. “He’s had a hard enough time as it is.’ 

“Hard enough or not, we cannot allow standards to slip,” Charles warned. “We have to find a way for Thomas to regain his spirit, or he will have no place here.” 

“Well standards are already slipping in the kitchen,” Elsie gestured helplessly at the chaos before them. “We have to do something about this electricity. It keeps going in and out. Mrs. Patmore cannot be asked to perform like this.” 

In her own corner, Mrs. Patmore was still desperately trying to get the mixing bowl to behave by shoving the socket in and out of the cooper wiring. To her left, the maids were cracking and sorting egg yolks from whites. 

“Damnable thing won’t start!” Mrs. Patmore moaned. 

In the background, Charles’ ears heard the telltale sound of a bell ringing from the dial board. Andrew skirted past the kitchen, heading up the stairs to answer the family’s call. Everything was running smoothly, or about as smoothly as things could ever run in Downton, but Charles’ neck hairs began to stand on end as if he were being watched. 

Which he was. 

In the shadow of the hall, almost pressed flat to the wall and leering like a vulcher, was Thomas Barrow. 

It was a surprising change to find him downstairs in the kitchen. Since his near slip with death, Thomas had instead been hiding in the eves of the upstairs and rarely venturing below the first floor. 

“Charles,” Elsie whispered in his ear, nodding her head in Thomas’ direction. The pair of them watched, almost entranced, as Thomas milled about from corner to corner, seemingly directionless. When he eventually crossed over the threshold of the kitchen, he was almost knocked over by Andrew returning from the stairs. 

“Tea for Lady Mary and Mr. Branson in the drawing room,” Andrew pronounced. 

But Mrs. Patmore was still damned and determined to get the egg beater to start. For a woman who despised modern implements, she certainly was loathe to let them go. 

“I think I’ve just about got it!” Mrs. Patmore declared, using her meaty hands to force the prongs of the egg beater more straight. “The wire’s all bent out of place. If I get higher up on the copper lead, I can use the beater. Gertie-!” The scullery maid screeched to a halt, her worn out leather shoes skidding on the slickened floor. “Get me my step stool!” 

“Peter’s using it in the attic, Mrs. Patmore!” Gertie said. 

“Well then, go fetch the blasted thing!” Mrs. Patmore snapped, leaving the scullery maid running for cover. “Or do you expect me to turn into a giraffe?!” 

Gertie fled, heading for the stairs and the attics. 

Elsie stepped forward, cutting neatly behind Andrew to address Thomas. He did not seem to notice her, his blue eyes vacant as they took in the controlled chaos. 

“Mr. Barrow…” But Thomas did not answer her. Elsie leaned in a little more, placing a tender hand upon his elbow. He jerked, shocked at the approach. Still, Elsie tried. “Thomas. How are your duties coming along?” 

But instead of giving a report, Thomas just bleakly repeated the word back to her like it had no meaning. “Duties…” 

“Do we have any more water left in the kettle?” Daisy was left to make tea for Lady Mary and Branson, peering into the copper kettle at the back of the stove. She sighed, clearly finding a lack. “I’ll have to make a new pot.” 

She took the kettle off the stove and walked it over to the sink, turning on the tap so that water began to flow. It was a well known trick of servitude that if one filled a kettle with water that was already hot, it would make the time of serving tea cut in two. As such, Daisy waited by the tap with her wrist beneath the stream, waiting for the frigid temperature to rise. 

“Come on now, you daft thing-!” Mrs. Patmore was trying to get more copper wire down from its hanger on the ceiling. She pulled, but despite her grip she could not get more strand to lower. 

Daisy rinsed out the kettle pot. Charles wouldn’t have cared one way or the other, save that for some reason Thomas was starting to pull out of his reverie from the site of it. 

Why? 

“Daisy…” Thomas croaked. But his voice was too soft to be heard over the pall of the kitchen. “Daisy. Daisy!” 

Finally able to hear him, Daisy looked around glaring at Thomas. She, like most, did not enjoy the man’s company or his comments. 

“What?” She demanded. When Thomas did not answer, she added. “Spit it out.” 

“That’s unsafe,” Thomas said. 

Daisy blinked, taken aback. She looked from Thomas to the kettle which was still being washed beneath the tepid water. “Wha’? How is washing a pot unsafe?” 

“The wire,” Thomas said, taking another step closer. Daisy looked overhead, to where the copper wiring lay exposed upon the ceiling. It was layered with an inch of dust, undisturbed since its installation in 1914. 

She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. “Stick to your business and I’ll stick to mine,” she muttered, turning her back on Thomas to continue washing the pot. The water was almost warm enough and starting to steam. 

Elsie walked around the kitchen island, trying to pull Thomas back from bothering Daisy and the maids. “Why don’t you take a break, Thomas? It’ll do you well to get some fresh air.” 

But now Charles was starting to notice the wire too. Normally it wouldn’t be an issue, but Mrs. Patmore was still pulling on the loose end, trying to get more length for her egg beater. She was too short to reach the exposed wire without her step stool. 

“Almost got it-!” Mrs. Patmore gave one hearty tug, finally getting the wire to pop past its initial hanging hook. 

But the weight of the wire, already laden down by ten other plugs, caused it to begin to fall. It swung in a wide arch, careenning past Mrs. Patmore who shrieked in shock and flung her arms up over her face as sparks popped through the air-! 

“DAISY!” 

It was difficult to say who moved or spoke first. In unison, both Thomas and Charles lurched forward, their hands outstretched for the kitchen maid who stood in shock at the kitchen sink with her hands in the water. Daisy’s eyes were wide and blank, like a doe about to be shot by a hunter. 

The copper wire landed in the water filled sink, and everything went white. 

The explosion which occurred was so shocking, so sudden, that Charles had no way to prepare for it. 

Thomas had reached Daisy first, being closer, and had knocked her out of the way and onto the ground. As a result, when Charles reached out to grab Daisy he actually grabbed Thomas by the neck. The blast of the copper hitting the wire knocked them both off their feet, tumbling into one another as they were projected a good foot in the air back towards the hallway. 

In unison, like some macabre spider, they smashed against the window which divided the kitchen from the hallway, the power of the electric shock taking them right through it and onto the other side. 

They crashed upon the floor, entwined in a mass of limbs and liveries. 

And then everything was gone. 

**  
  
**

~*~

**  
  
**

Something cold was touching his chest. 

Charles slowly opened his aching eyes, his vision spiraling in and out till it finally solidified on a wooden ceiling where a large fan rotated at a lazy speed. Light was coming in from the left, illuminating the figure of one Dr. Richard Clarkson who seemed quite relieved to have Charles back amongst the land of the living. 

“Good,” Dr. Clarkson beamed at the sight of him awakening. “Deep breathes, Mr. Carson-” 

But he cared nothing for himself. His thoughts were only of Daisy, the poor girl- “Daisy,” he moaned in pain. His whole body ached as if he’d run a marathon. 

“Perfectly fine,” Dr. Clarkson assured him. A breeze fluttered past the open window, sending the curtains swaying. What day was it? How long had he been unconscious. 

“Mrs. Hughes-” 

“Just fine. All of them are fine-- well---” Dr. Clarkson amended himself. “Mr. Barrow is in about the same shape as you are, but besides that everyone is fine.” 

“But…” Even so, Charles was having trouble piecing it all together. He could only remember so much. “What happened?” 

“The copper wire above the kitchen sink fell loose from its holding bracket and hit a sink full of water,” Dr. Clarkson explained. “An electric explosion knocked you backward through a window and you took Thomas with you. At your age, surviving such a trauma is frankly something to be celebrated by science.” 

As if through a fog, Charles recalled the sight of Thomas, his pale face tense with pain and surprise. They’d spiralled around each other, the universe reduced the to width of their pressed bodies. For one second, nothing had existed save for the other. When they’d crashed through the glass, Charles had almost felt like he’d been protecting Thomas. Like Thomas had been protecting him. It had happened so quickly that Charles hadn’t been able to register it at the time, but now he knew that if only for just one second… they’d been one. 

“How is he?” Charles groaned as Dr. Clarkson continued his examination, listening to Charles’ aged heart through his stethoscope. This had been the cold sensation Charles had felt upon waking. 

“Thomas wasn’t on good ground to start with,” Dr. Clarkson admitted. “But he’ll improve. Both of you are lucky to be alive after what you endured.” 

Content with his findings, Dr. Clarkson laced his stethoscope around his neck, and pulled the curtains about Charles bed back so that he could see the ward beyond. Sure enough, laying in the bed to his left was Thomas. There was a heavy burn mark upon his neck and his cheek was taped as if it had been cut. He was staring listlessly, but his eyes slowly settled upon Charles as Dr. Clarkson walked over to his own bed. 

“Just rest, Mr. Carson,” Dr. Clarkson urged. Dr. Clarkson took the bed hangings which surrounded Thomas cubicle and pulled them shut so that the sight of the two men was suddenly cut off. 

Charles tried to do as the doctor had bade, laying back against his pillow. He raised his hands up to eye level, noting that there were cuts and burn marks upon his fingers. A great deal of pain came from his chest, and Charles pulled at his pajamas so that he might see the skin beneath. 

There, right over his heart, were four oval burns they were in succession, barely half an inch or so apart, and looked oddly human in shape. 

As if they were the marks of someone’s fingers. 

Charles laid his hand over the burns, noting that they’d been covered with a paste to help them heal. His suspicions were confirmed when he noted that his own fingers looked slightly similar to the burn marks. 

It was the touch of another human being, rendered into his flesh forever by the power of electricity. But whose hand had it been? Daisy’s? 

Or perhaps… 

“Your hands are like ice,” Thomas spoke up from behind the curtain. “Just like your soul.” 

Charles twitched in shock, looking left abruptly to where behind the curtains Dr. Clarkson was surely examining Thomas. 

“Just relax, Thomas,” Dr. Clarkson said. He certainly was being kind to a man that didn’t deserve it. 

“How can I relax with you lording over me like the Grim Reaper.” Thomas hissed. My god, the mouth on the man! 

Charles wished he had the strength to reprimand him. 

“Your blood pressure is still a little low,” It was as if Dr. Clarkson had not even heard Thomas call him the Grim Reaper. “I want you to eat a heavy protein diet to get your blood count back up. This shock did you no favors.” 

“More favors than you,” Thomas muttered. Once again, Charles wished he could smack the man about the face. Where was his sense of gratefulness? Why did he have to spit on everything the world gave him? 

“Do you have any questions?” Dr. Clarkson asked Thomas kindly. 

“... When can I leave,” For some reason, Thomas spoke in a croak though only seconds ago he’d had a normal voice. What theatrics. 

“When I’m satisfied,” Dr. Clarkson said. 

At this, Dr. Clarkson left, pulling Thomas’ bed curtains back so that Charles could see that Thomas was rolled on his side. Now, Charles could only see his back; Thomas was curled up like a child, his head tucked deep upon the pillow. 

“Liar,” Thomas whispered. 

Dr. Clarkson either did not hear or did not care, leaving the ward with a comfortable pace and a calm smile upon his face. 

Charles watched him go, amazed at the man’s bedside temperament. 

~*~

The hours passed, and Charles fell asleep. His head was splitting with a migraine, feeling muddled and thick like heavy potato soup in a cold tureen. When he awoke for a second time, it was to the sight of Dr. Clarkson once again making his rounds. Now, however, it was well into the night and the hospital had fallen into a hush. A few gas lamps were lit, but their wicks were low and a gentle gloom encompassed the beds they touched. Thomas had rolled back on his other side, so that Charles could now see his wane and pale face. He looked even more childlike without pomade in his hair or a bowtie at his neck. 

Fragile, almost. 

Charles wouldn’t have called out to Dr. Clarkson, but the man was scanning the beds and noted he was awake. 

He walked over with a gentle smile, bending over so that the pair of them could speak while whispering. Clearly everyone else was asleep. 

“Mr. Carson, how are you feeling?” Dr. Clarkson said. 

“Better, thank you,” Admittedly Charles head was starting to hurt much less. 

“You’ll start to feel your body returning to normal soon enough. Sit up for me?” Charles did so, and Dr. Clarkson carefully checked his chest where the burns still lay over his heart. “Everything seems to be progressing well. No bleeding, and no swelling-” 

“Listen, about what Barrow said, I want to apologize-” Charles murmured. It didn’t sit right with him that a man like Dr. Clarkson ought to suffer such abuse unnecessarily. 

But instead of smiling and waving it off, Dr. Clarkson stopped examining Charles’ burns and looked at him in confusion. 

“What?” He asked. 

“I could hear him through the curtain,” Charles explained. Still, Dr. Clarkson was wary. 

“It hardly offended me,” He said, straightening up. “He has every right to want to know when to leave.” 

“But no right to call you all the other things he said.” Charles said. “You’re certainly not a Grim Reaper.” 

“What?” Dr. Clarkson was taken aback. “When on earth did he call me that?” 

“I heard him!” Charles was surprised. How was it possible that Dr. Clarkson had not heard Thomas when Thomas had all but yowled in the man’s face? Was it plausible that the man was going deaf? “He said it to your face, and all sorts of other things too-” 

But Dr. Clarkson just looked even more disturbed. 

“... Mr. Carson,” Dr. Clarkson spoke reproachfully, “Thomas said nothing to me, save for when he asked when he could leave. I was watching him the whole time. Are you sure you heard these things? Because if so-” 

The blood drained from Charles’ face. As certain as he was that he’d heard Thomas speaking, Dr. Clarkson’s assurity was making him panic. Determined not to be put in some sort of madhouse over a slip of the tongue (or ear), Charles rapidly backed up. 

“I must have been mistaken,” he said in a rush. 

Dr. Clarkson was still cautious. “If you’re sure? You haven’t been having any headaches?” 

“I… I have, admittedly,” Charles said. 

“It may have been an auditory hallucination brought on by stress,” Dr. Clarkson said. “What’s needed now is rest. If you experience any other unsettling changes, please let me know at once.” At this, he urged Charles to lay back upon his pillow, and even poured him a glass of water. 

“Try to sleep,” Dr. Clarkson said. “In the morning, I’ll come see you again.” 

Yet as Dr. Clarkson walked away, Charles did not feel that he could rest. So disturbed was he at the thought of experiencing an auditory hallucination that it robbed him of all peace. He lay, sweating, upon his pillow. 

It suddenly occurred to him in rather ominous fashion that the reason why Thomas’ croak of a voice had taken him aback was that it had been Thomas’  _ actual  _ voice, and not a hallucination of his own imagining. 

It made him feel queasy to admit it. 

Charles rose from bed, swinging his legs over the side with the intent of perhaps taking a short walk about the ward; anything to get his mind off the fear that now was coursing through his aged bones. But standing just made him feel wobbly, and he did not know if his muscles were strong enough to support him just now. 

He looked across the gap that divided him and Thomas, noting that Thomas was asleep. His mouth was slightly ajar, tiny huffs of air passing between his pink lips. When he wasn’t seething with rage, the man looked like an entirely different human being. It occurred to Charles that what he was seeing now was a Thomas free of strife. A normal Thomas. 

For a moment, Charles simply stared at the man, wondering at how things had spun so far out of their control. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Thomas had crossed the threshold of the abby searching for work as a footman. Even then, young and whole, he’d been angry. Even then, there’d been this awful hate inside of him that Carson had not understood nor wanted to examine. 

But here, in sleep, Thomas was innocent of all charges. 

Charles head began to ache again, and he palmed his forehead. Ugly muddled whispers were floating through his ears, like static coming out of a gramophone. He wondered if he was beginning to hallucinate again, and quickly lay back down lest the stress overtake him. 

But he was hearing things, even so. Hearing them as if someone had pressed a pillow to his ears to cover the sounds. 

Somewhere, distantly, a woman was whispering. 

_ “It’s not you he doesn’t like. It’s the whole word,” _ Charles pressed his hands over his ears, hoping that the voice would fade. Hoping that what he was hearing was the voice of a mother consoling her child on the ward. 

But there were no visitors at this time of night. 

_ “I wish he liked me,”  _ a little boy answered back.  _ “I wish he loved me.”  _

_ “He doesn’t even know how to love himself, Thomas,”  _ the woman replied.  _ “Some men don’t have the courage to face what they see in the mirror. Just make sure that’s never you. Be what you are, but be aware of what it means. Be proud.”  _

_ “Proud?”  _

_ “Well…”  _ Charles could hear a squeaking noise as if someone was sitting on a bed nearby.  _ “I’m proud of you.”  _

A pause. 

_ “I’m always proud of you.”  _

**  
  
**

“I’m dreaming,” Charles whispered to himself, hands pressed over his eyes to block the world out. “I’m dreaming and this will stop. I’m dreaming and this will stop.” 

There was a soft hushed whisper, like folds of fabric floating through the air to lay upon still ground. 

The woman and the child’s voices faded the silence, the auditory hallucination gone. With shaking hands, Charles slowly uncovered his eyes to find the world just as he’d left it before. 

To his left, Thomas was still asleep. His expression, Charles noted, looked slightly more pained though… as if he was missing something. 

**  
  
  
**


	2. Utter Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'd think getting shocked senseless would be bad enough, but things are just getting weirder for Charles Carson much to his dismay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for **attempted electrocution**

It took several more days in the hospital before Charles was released, with Dr. Clarkson tentative regarding his heart. In the end, however, the good doctor had to concede that despite the fact that Charles and Thomas had both been shocked within an inch of their life, they were physically fine. 

Mentally, however? That was a completely different story. 

The fact of the matter was that despite never having heard voices a day in his life before, Charles was now hearing voices almost constantly. This, in and of itself, would be petrying enough; the voices, however, were not wide spread and confusing. They were pointed, singular, and situated on one person alone. 

From the time he woke to the time he slept, Charles Carson heard Thomas Barrow speaking when the man never opened his mouth. His acerbic and condescending tones were so loud and so clear, that Charles was shocked no one else could hear them. Yet despite the vile things he heard Barrow saying, no one else was the wiser, pleasantly going on about their day while Charles was too terrified to even blink. 

After five days in hospital, Charles was finally released along with Thomas. The pair of them returned to Downton Abbey, walking along the village path with Elsie who’d come to see Charles home herself. Charles wanted to get straight back to work, to absorb himself in decanting wine and filing away days in his old fashioned standard. Anything to keep himself distracted from the absolute balony that was occurring within his brain. 

_ I cannot be going mad,  _ Charles thought in fear.  _ I cannot be.  _

Up ahead, not ten paces away, Thomas Barrow trod along at a glum pace. No one had come to see him home from the hospital, which was hardly a surprise. 

“Mrs. Patmore is absolutely beside herself,” Elsie declared, her arm linked in Charles’ own. “You should have seen the carnage.” 

“Did the glass get cleaned up?” Charles asked. Of all the places for an accident to occur! “I want the whole kitchen scoured over.” 

“She’s seen to that,” Elsie promised, which was good in Charles’ mind. Beryl Patmore was nothing if not a touch tyrannical. “Poor Daisy’s been traumatized though. The electrician stopped by on Thursday and the whole staff gave the man a good hiding. I honestly felt a little sorry for him. But how are you? That’s what I want to know.” 

Charles couldn’t reveal the actual truth to his wife. That would be out of the question. But he could, at least, set her fears aside even if only a little. “I’ve been a little out of sorts,” Charles lied. “But I’ll get better.” 

Whispers were floating through his head, like the buzzing of a gnat in his ears. His jacket and tie felt oddly starchy to the touch, and worst of all he could feel a migraine coming on. It was like his senses were in overdrive. 

“If you say so,” Elsie didn’t seem to fully believe him. She was far too cunning to be taken in by a lie. “But you know you can always rely on me, yes?” 

“Yes.” His reply was automatic, nothing more than a knee jerk reaction while the real trauma surged beneath him. 

Up ahead, Thomas continued to walk on. This whispering in Charles’ ears was beginning to intensify. 

**  
  
  
**

It ought to have been so satisfying. To see the beautiful greenery of Downton village lay out before him with his wife by his side. But every twitter of every bird was dulled by a strange hissing sound that he couldn’t place. At first he imagined it was the wind, but it wouldn’t stop. Then, he wondered if perhaps it might be his ear drums acting up. Twice, Charles placed his finger to his ear to see if he could make it stop. But it wasn’t his ears either. 

It felt internal, something inside his mind instead of inside his ear. 

It unnerved him. 

**  
  
**

It took about thirty minutes to walk from the hospital to Downton Abbey, and by the time that he could see the tips of the towers coming over the hills of neighboring farm land, Charles was certain something was terribly wrong with his brain. 

The hissing was not wind, nor was it any type of ear infection. It was voices, and it was clearly terrifying. 

_ Keep calm,  _ Charles thought as they rounded the servant’s walkway.  _ Do not allow your panic to show before the staff.  _

Thomas reached the back door first, and fished around in his pocket for a door key until Elsie stopped him and used her own. It was an act of habit more than intention; as under butler, Thomas carried a set of keys just like Elsie and Charles. He’d not had his keys in his livery pocket when the explosion had occurred, however. 

“Silly boys,” Elsie tutted as she opened the door. 

_ “Hell on earth,”  _ Charles heard the voice clear as day, but it came from nowhere. It was Thomas’ voice, but Thomas had not been moving his lips. 

Charles’ heart began to pound. 

Yet there was no time to dwell on whether or not he was losing his mind. The voices of the staff aroused his already frayed nerves; quite suddenly he was thrown into a fray of familiar faces as both he and Elsie were swarmed by well wishers. 

In lieu of Charles being able to preside over the house, it was clear that all authority had fallen over to Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Bates. Both were relieved to see Charles back, with Bates shaking his hands and Mrs. Patmore clapping her hands before her breast in joy. 

“Mr. Carson!” Anna’s smiling face was like the sun, bringing warmth to the room. “Thank god you’re alright.” 

“I’m perfectly well, Anna. Thank you,” Charles promised her. 

Bates stood beside his wife, and while he did not have that over pouring joy Anna possessed, it was clear he was still pleased with the day’s results. “What did Dr. Clarkson say?” 

“That he’s lucky to be alive, after a blast like that,” Elsie scoffed. 

_ “Don’t mind me, I’ll just stand here.”  _

Charles looked around so quick, he nearly developed a crick in his neck. 

Thomas was against the wall, slightly slouched as he took off his bowler hat and outer coat. Though he’d spoken, though Charles was absolutely certain he’d heard Thomas’ voice, no one else seemed to have reacted or even heard. 

Could it be they were just ignoring his rude behavior? 

Charles stared at Thomas, narrowing his eyes as he considered his options. Thomas glanced up, met his gaze, and without missing a beat Charles heard,  _ “What are you looking at, you old goat?”  _

Charles balked, shocked to be spoken to in such a way. Thomas’ lips had never moved, but he couldn’t just stand by and let such a display take place! However Thomas was talking, perhaps like a ventriloquist, he would have to be punished. 

“...What?” Thomas asked. This time, his lips were moving. He seemed slightly wary of Charles, which was just as well since he’d only called him an ‘old goat’ two seconds before. 

“Charlie?” Elsie reached out, placing a gentle hand upon the small of his back. 

“He just-” Charles turned to the others, from Anna whose smile was beginning to drop, to Baxter who was looking at him like he needed a lie down. “Did you just hear what he called me?” 

“I didn’t call you anything,” Thomas replied. Yet even as he dully glared at Charles, Charles heard plain as day,  _ “Christ you’re bloody mental.”  _

“How dare you!” Charles cried out. The sheer nerve of the man! 

“Charlie!” Elsie was reproachful, holding him back. “What’s gotten into you? Thomas hasn’t said anything rude.” 

“Which makes for a pleasant change,” Bates added irritably. 

_ “Eat shit and die,”  _ came Thomas’ voice, though his lips were still. 

“How is no one else hearing the filth coming out of his mouth!?” Charles demanded of the others. “Mr. Bates, did you not hear what he just said to you?!” 

But Bates just stared. Where before he’d been at ease, now he was growing alarmed. “Mr. Carson, Thomas said nothing to me.” 

“Are you sure you should be released from the hospital,” Thomas wondered aloud. “If you’re hearing my voice when I’m not speaking-” 

“Don’t you get smart with me,” Charles snapped right back, “You vile upstart! I should whip you for the things that you’ve been saying! I know you’re pulling a trick on me somehow, and I won’t stand for it!” 

The silence that fell was deafening. Charles looked about, first to Elsie who seemed slightly horrified, then to Anna and the rest who were just as unnerved. Finally, he looked back to Thomas who for whatever reason was not meeting his eye. There was an odd static feeling in the air. Something was brewing beneath the surface, making the air feel thick and soupy. 

“... Mr. Carson,” Anna stepped up albeit nervously, “Thomas didn’t say anything.” 

It seemed that Thomas’ trick was meant for his ears alone. Desperate not to lose face before his already rattled staff, Charles did his best to compose himself. “I… must have misheard. Let’s not speak on it anymore.” 

_ “Bastard.”  _ Charles looked back at Thomas, who had not moved from his spot along the wall. No one else had heard it, but Charles was absolutely certain that Thomas had called him a bastard. 

Yet before Charles could lose his temper a second time, Daisy entered the servant’s hall from the kitchen walkway, carrying a fresh kettle full of tea. She saw Charles and immediately was overcome, setting the kettle down to walk right up to him with misty brown eyes. 

“Mr. Carson! I’m ever so sorry for what happened,” Charles noted that there were a few scratches upon Daisy’s beautiful face. “Thank you for saving me. Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“... Yes Daisy, I’m perfectly well, thank you.” But Charles was not well, and it seemed only he noticed Thomas slipping out of the room along the wall. Strangely enough, every step that Thomas took, it seemed that Charles’ migraine became worse. 

_ I don’t know how he’s doing this to me,  _ Charles seethed.  _ But as God as my witness I will figure it out and punish him for it.  _

~*~

Despite having looked into the matter from every angle that he could muster, Charles still did not know exactly how Thomas was tricking him. It was downright terrifying, to sit at the table with the entire staff only to hear things that no one else could hear. There certainly was no way that Thomas would be able to say such things aloud normally and get away with it. At least six times a day, Thomas uttered the phrase  _ “Eat shit and die”  _ to John Bates, which was absolutely unforgivable. No man was perfect, but John Bates was certainly close enough. Thomas Barrow, on the other hand, was a walking train wreck. 

Yet worse than Thomas’ ability to speak with only Charles hearing him was the incessant headache which now pursued him. His hands tingled violently as if he were suffering from blood loss. Queer smells assaulted him with no source that he could find. Spots would burst before his vision only to delicately filter away. Sometimes, Charles could not read text if it was printed before him. Sometimes, he could read the text so well that it felt like Charles was being absorbed into the paper. He chalked it up to his accident and his age, and prayed that he could keep the facade going until he had time to go see Dr. Clarkson again. 

He certainly didn’t have time now. 

Lady Mary, having wed Henry Talbot, was fit to go on her second honeymoon. At first, Charles had thought that Lady Mary might like to go to Europe (as was the typical fashion) but instead she wanted to go to America where apparently there were car shows in Chicago that Mr. Talbot wanted to see. It wasn’t exactly what Charles would call romantic, but it was clear that he made Mary happy, so it hardly fluttered him one way or another. She would take only Anna with her, which Mr. Bates regretted given that Anna was now six months pregnant with their first babe. Still, Anna took it in her stride, hat in hand, and waved them all a cheery goodbye.

At first, Charles had thought this would settle things nicely, and that perhaps with less people in the house Charles would have a moment to breath and get his head seen to. But then, Lord Grantham had announced he wanted to travel to London, with Lady Grantham going with him. This left only Tom at the house, with Lord and Lady Grantham traveling to London to open up Grantham House for two weeks so that they might attend to Lady Edith. She’d not been the same since Lord Hexam had left her, a droopy and down little flower. 

So, Elsie had decided that if the family was to be away, they would do some heavily needed cleaning. Thomas was to go with the family to London, along with Bates and Baxter. With only Lord and Lady Grantham to attend to, Thomas would serve as both their butler and footman while Bates and Baxter dressed the family. This was a god send, because Charles’ head was starting to hurt so bad that he couldn’t think straight anymore. He took it as a sign of divine providence that he was getting Thomas out of the house along with half the family. 

_ See you pull awful tricks on me when you’re not around,  _ Charles thought righteously. 

The day that Lord and Lady Grantham were to leave, Bates and Baxter took over the packing while Thomas and Andrew loaded the valises onto the back of the motorcar. Charles observed Thomas through wary eyes, focusing on each move the man made like a hawk. Thomas and Charles were semi-alone, and Charles was determined to make the most of it. 

“Have you got everything?” Charles demanded. 

“Yes, Mr. Carson,” Thomas sighed, not even bothering him to look at him as he worked. Behind the motorcar, Thomas buckled down a stack of valises, testing the strength of the leather strap. 

“Have you double checked?” Charles’ head gave an indignant throb. 

“Yes, Mr. Carson,” Thomas was close to snapping now. Charles could hear the anger in his voice. 

Leaning in, knowing full well that Thomas would shrink back, Charles swelled up to the height of his physical being and hissed in Thomas’ ear. “I should imagine you would refrain from showing me cheek, lest you forget that I am the butler here.” 

Somehow, Thomas pulled his trick again. Without speaking, Charles heard him say,  _ “Hard to forget when you constantly remind everyone,”  _ then quick as you please Thomas used his actual mouth to say, “Yes, Mr. Carson.” 

Charlese looked over his shoulder to note that all the other staff were preoccupied with seeing the family to the car. He had Thomas to himself, if only for a moment. It was a moment he did not intend to waste. 

Grabbing Thomas hard by the arm, Carson pressed him hard against the back of the motorcar. A sudden hissing, fizzing noise could be heard, as if one of the tires were getting ready to pop. Charles paid no heed to it, instead pushing himself hard up against Thomas so that the insolent boy would have no choice but to refute. 

“I don’t know how you’re doing it,” Charles hissed through gritted teeth, “But I can hear everything you're saying.” 

Thomas said nothing, his icy blue eyes blank. The hissing sound was getting louder; where was it coming from? 

“I hear you, being snide and vicious when the others don’t. I don’t know how you’re talking without your mouth, and I don’t know how I’m the only one that can hear it, but your jokes are wasted on me. You’re going to pay for everything that you’ve said.” 

As if to make fun of him, Thomas played the trick again. Inches from Charles’ face, Thomas spoke without ever once opening his mouth.  _ “He’s completely lost his mind.”  _

“I heard that!” Charles seethed, pressing Thomas harder against the car. 

“Heard what?” Thomas demanded, this time using his mouth to speak, “I didn’t even say anything!” 

“Lie all you like!” Charles was ready to throttle the boy, “I know what you’re doing-” 

“You’re crazy,” Thomas began to ramble, his blue eyes going wild. “You need to be seen by Dr. Clarkson. You’re turning mad, that electricity did something to you-” 

“How dare you-!” 

“No-” Thomas finally got the strength and the distance to push Charles off. Charles stumbled back, fuming. “How dare you? Don’t you think I’ve got enough to worry about without you harping on at me for things I’m not doing?!” 

Then, without moving his lips,  _ “Just leave me alone, you bully!”  _

“I am not a bully!” Charles scoffed. 

“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you,” it was clear that Thomas did not believe him. 

“Carson!” 

The stern voice of Lord Grantham was like cold water being thrown onto both their faces. The pair looked about to find the elder Grantham watching them cautiously. “We’re leaving, Barrow. We need you.” 

_ “Thank god,”  _ Thomas spoke while walking away, though his lips never even so much as twitched.  _ “Get me away from him.”  _

Charles watched Thomas go, seething at his retreating back. 

**  
  
**

~*~ 

**  
  
**

Each hour, each minute, each second… Charles’ head throbbed in skull splitting agony. 

He’d wanted to clean the silver pantry, but he couldn’t summon the energy. 

He’d wanted to decant some wine, but he couldn’t manage to keep his focus. 

Every breath in his lungs, every nerve in his skin, seemed to be full of an awful ongoing fire. The smells, the sounds, the feelings of items, all of it was just getting worse. The hissing and buzzing in Charles’ ears just wouldn’t stop. Sleep was the only mercy he was given, and even that was difficult to come by. Somehow, when he slept, he still felt like he was awake through the eyes of another. He had bizarre dreams, of rooms in Grantham House and back streets of London. Worst of all, one Saturday night Charles had had the most vivid and horrifying dream of a man sodomizing him. He’d been looking out on the world through the eyes of a stranger, and though he himself was horrified the stranger had been full of lust and desire. Charles had been able to feel the sex, to feel the blissful burning in his core as the man behind him had fucked him raw. 

Somehow, Charles had simply known he was seeing the world through Thomas’ eyes That Thomas was having sex with some dark man in the backrows of London, and only Charles was aware of it. 

He’d woken up with a weeping erection, and had been deeply ashamed. 

**  
  
  
**

The night before Lord and Lady Grantham had been set to return from London, Charles was in his office unable to so much as move without searing agony. The only way he could keep from going absolutely insane was to press his hands over his eyes to block out the world. This was but a minor consolation, yet it served as the only barrier that he had. 

Why? 

Why was his happening to him? 

Was he dying? Did he have cancer? Was his brain being eroded away from the electric shock? Would he end up losing his life to this horrible accident? 

“Mr. Carson-” 

Andy was in the doorway of his office; god only knows how long he’d been there. 

Charles jerked his hands up in front of his ears. The voice had been like a shout, though Andy had not raised his voice. God, how he wanted to die from the agony! 

Andy was clearly nervous, hanging just inside the door. 

“Are… Are you well, Mr. Carson?” 

In truth, Charles was ready to either vomit, pass out, or vomit and fall into his sick by passing out. Something along those lines. 

“I… am… fine…” Charles could barely get out one word at a time. “What… do you… want?” 

“...I…” Andy shrank into the doorway, frightened. “I just wanted to take Daisy to the pictures tonight, if that’s alright-?” 

“Go,” Charles bit out. 

“Are you… are you sure you’re-” 

“Go!” Charles shouted. Anything to get the boy out of his office and leave him in peace. 

Andy fled, clearly terrified. 

“God help me,” Charles choked out. The world was spiraling and he was being sucked down the train of oblivion. 

**  
  
**

He closed his eyes, and lay his head upon the desk. 

Anything… anything to find relief. 

**  
  
  
  
**

“Charlie?” 

**  
  
  
  
  
**

“Charles, answer me.” 

“Charlie?” He could barely hear Elsie. It was like her voice was coming through a fog. The touch of things, the feeling of things, was so terrifying overwhelming that Charles did not even feel human. 

He could barely move from his chair. 

Elsie was in the doorway, her chatelaine bouncing upon her hip. 

“Charles, you’re frightening me,” Elsie came to stand before him, and touched him upon the face. But her hands were hot, almost like fire, and Charles jerked back in physical pain. 

“You’re touch-!” He choked out. “You're hands are like fire-” 

The vision of his wife swam before him. Her beautiful brown eyes were full of fear. 

“Charlie, you need to go see a doctor,” She begged. “You’re ill.” 

“God-” But Charles could barely hear her over the cacophony of the house. He could hear every pot being washed, every clock hand ticking, even the whine of Tiaa upstairs. “I can hear everything. It’s all too much… I’m drowning-” 

“Charles-- Charlie!” At this, Elsie lost patience and grabbed him by the face. Though her hands were hot, her gaze was even more intense, and it seemed to suck Charles in so that for a moment he could hear nothing else. He could see nothing else. In those moments, the world seemed to be sucked in tight around her body, so that nothing else existed without her influence. 

“Look at me, focus on me.” She begged. He did so, too frightened to do anything else. “You are ill. You need help. Stay in your office tonight and I will attend the family when the get back. Call Dr. Clarkson, yes?” At this, she even pushed the phone a few inches forward upon his desk. 

But calling someone on the telephone… oh Charles didn’t know if he had the strength for that. That would mean picking up the receiver, talking to an operator. It terrified him. 

“...I…” Charles croaked out. “...Yes…” 

“Good-” Elsie even poured a glass of water for him. The sound was like a waterfall bursting through a dam. 

“Drink this,” She bade him, pressing the glass into his hands. Charles felt like he could sense every crack in the ancient porcelain. Every pore in the clay. When he drank, he nearly spat the water out. It tasted so heavily of copper, it was like trying to consume a pence. 

“The- water-” Charles gurgled, only just managing to swallow. 

“The water?” Elsie repeated his words. 

He looked down into the cup, but it was like his vision had been magnified by twenty. Unbeknownst to his wife, Charles could see the tiniest specks of dirt in his water. How had she not noticed before? How had he been so blind? 

“There’s something in the water, look,” Charles begged her, trying to show her the cup. “Do you see those little bits?” 

“No, I don’t,” Elsie said. “But I’ll have Mrs. Patmore boil you a new kettle. Now call Dr. Clarkson,” Elsie pushed the phone towards him again, and left without another word. There was a slight panic in her steps, a purpose in her walk. 

She was frightened for him, even if she wouldn’t admit it. 

~*~

The family returned, but Charles could not summon himself to so much as get up out of his chair. 

His headache was beginning to diminish, but in a way this only made things worse. No longer blinded by his pain, Charles’s senses were violent and causing him to feel like he was suffering from an intense gaze of vertigo. If he stared too long at any object, his gaze would zoom in like he was looking through a magnifying lense. If he listened too hard, he could hear things occurring four rooms down. Worst of all, whispers plagued him, heavy and sinister. They were calling out to him, seeming to wander from one corner of the room to the next. As they drew close, Carson could hear Thomas’ voice as if through a fog. 

_ “Christ what’s in this tea? Did she get a new brew?”  _

_ “God I wish the rain would let up. I wish there were sun. I’ll die as pale as the marble.”  _

_ “Where is that old bastard anyways?”  _

Charles closed his eyes and lay his head upon his desk, too weak to do anything else. He had to regain his strength before he could even think about telephoning the doctor. 

Distantly, Charles heard the door to his study open. 

“Oh, Charlie…” It was Elsie. She’d come back to check on him. Her hands were upon his brow, carefully pushing the hair out of his face. 

He could hear the jiggling of the telephone, the far off drum of a bell ringing. 

“Downton Village Hospital please,” Elsie spoke. “It’s an emergency.” 

Slowly, grindingly, Charles drew up from his desk and reached out with sweaty and shaky hands to touch the receiver of the telephone. As a result, the line went dead. Elsie looked down at him in dismay, but Charles forced her to hang up the phone. 

“...Migraine…” He whispered the word. “Just a migraine. Need rest. Going to… sleep here tonight. Tomorrow, I will be better.” 

“I beg of you, let me call Dr. Clarkson,” Elsie implored. “You need help. You’re as pale as a sheet.” 

“I know what this is,” Charles lied. “I know how to fix it.” 

He had absolutely no idea how to fix this. He didn’t think even Dr. Clarkson would be able to fix this. What he needed was the sheer intervention of God. 

“I’ll sleep here,” Charles kept his eyes closed as Elsie pressed him to her stomach, holding him back. It was so soothing, to lay in her arms, but it wasn’t enough. It just wasn’t enough. 

It was utter madness. 

“I wish you’d let me take care of you.” Elsie said. 

But she couldn’t take care of this. No one could take care of this. 

“Don’t worry about me,” Charles whispered. 

At this point, he didn’t know what else to tell her. 

~*~

Twice, Charles heard someone knock--  _ no.  _

Twice, Charles practically sensed every movement as two members of staff walked to his door and all but hammered for the atrocious panging it left in his head. First it was Andrew, arriving back and alerting Charles to his return. The second time, it was Mrs. Patmore, wondering if he was still in his office as she locked up for the night. He answered for neither of them, trying desperately to regain enough strength to act. He didn’t know if he ought to ring for the ambulance, try to go to bed, or simply fetch a gun and shoot himself with it. Each option felt valuable at this point in time. 

But Charles was not a coward, and he didn’t like taking the cowards way out. Suicide just felt wrong, even at this horrid low in his life. He couldn’t imagine the awful pain it might bring Elsie, or the scandal that would befall the house (which one was worse, he wondered). Sleeping seemed like a fabulous idea, but Charles didn’t know if he was even capable of it at this point. Calling the doctor was, likewise, starting to sound viable, but he was still determined to muscle through this calamity if he could. It was close to midnight, and it would not do to disturb Dr. Clarkson if he could just as easily solve the problem at home. 

But how did one solve a problem like this? 

It had all begun with the electrocution, of that Charles was sure. Before the accident, he’d never heard a peculiar voice in his life, nor had his senses ever been so out of control. Dr. Clarkson had seemed confident in his help, but the man had been wrong before. Would it be such a stretch to imagine that he was wrong again? No, the more that Charles really sat and thought about it (which was all he had strength for at this moment) the more that he reckoned the electricity must have addled his brain. 

So how did one un-addle themselves? 

He’d heard of electrocution therapy working before, particularly for ailments of the mind. He wasn’t a medical man, nor a scientific one, so how was he to know how it all worked? Something about the shock had wronged him, so perhaps if he simply shocked himself again (this time in a controlled manner) he might be able to undo the damage and save himself. Any port in a storm, at this point, would be a saving grace. What was more, with the late hour upon him the entire house was safely asleep. If ever there were a moment for Charles to experiment in the wonders of new science, it was now. 

Shuddering, Charles slowly raised his head from his desk to stare out across his office. His eyes automatically focused upon a beaded lamp on the opposite side of the room, and suddenly Charles could pick out every thread in the embroidery. He shut his eyes, desperate to not see any more. 

He had to do something, and quickly. 

There was absolutely no way that Charles was going to play fire with that ruddy copper wire in the kitchen. That blast had nearly killed him. He needed something smaller, something that perhaps he could hold in his hand…. 

And then, it dawned upon him that Lady Mary owned a hair dryer, the only one in the house, and that it might be the absolute perfect tool to use. He could, if necessary, claim an accident had befallen the dratted thing and purchase her another out of his own pocket. She need never know of his act of insanity. 

Charles tried to stagger up from his desk, only to nearly collapse back upon it. In a last ditch effort to keep upright, he grabbed an umbrella from the wall and used it as a prop. He felt like the Dowager Countess, struggling across the room like a deformed crab. With each step he took, Charles could swear that he was moving through a woven tapestry of life. 

He left his office to find the halls pitch black. Yet despite the lack of light, Charles could see clear as day (perhaps better than he’d ever been able to see before). As such, he made it to the stairs without once tripping on a table leg or carpet train, though he still felt wretched and his head was aching. Now came the horrible act of walking up each step, which felt like he was dragging a corpse behind him. Charles hung on tight to the railing, but his sweaty palms were hypersensitive, and it was like he could feel every groove in the waxed wood. It was almost painful to the touch. 

He reached the first floor, then the gallery floor, and had to top to regain his breath. He could feel a stream of sweat pouring from his temple, which he swatted away before it could itch. Staggering through the green baize door, Charles walked with a frail sway, terrified of being caught out. He passed by the bachelors hall only to sense Tom Branson sleeping. Despite the man being several doors down and behind two separate walls, Charles could hear Branson snoring slightly in his sleep. He could sense the pulse of the man’s strong heart, steady and somber in its rest. He passed by the nursery, only to sense the tossings and turnings of the infant Marigold, still in nappies and unable to get through the night. Somehow, though Charles could claim no way of knowing it, he was absolutely certain that the child had wetted herself and needed to be changed. 

He felt like he was stumbling through some hysterical dream. Like he was having an out of body experience. 

He reached Lady Mary’s room to find it dark and quiet, without its usual mistress in lieu of her honeymoon. He all but fell onto her chest of drawers, searching through them blindly with one hand- 

_ the smooth polish of a bottle of perfume-- he could smell every ingredient individually  _

_ the bristles of a hairbrush-- he could feel it crawling with microscopic germs that threatened to make him physically ill _

Charles pulled out the hairdryer, holding it to his chest like a newborn babe. 

So close. 

So very close. 

Back up the hallway he went, in that queer scuttling crab like formation that came from being ready to pitch and fall at the first breath of wind. By the time that he’d reached the attics, Charles was certain he had no more strength left and feared that he would be found in a dead faint with a hair dryer and an umbrella like some old dottard. 

But fate was with him tonight; the door to the men’s bathroom was only slightly ajar, and that crack gave Charles the momentum he needed to lean against the wood so that he might be allowed entry. 

He collapsed against the floor, the hairdryer falling from his hands. He lay there, soaked to the skin in sweat, shuddering with nausea until he had the strength back to wobble to his feet and make for the tub. 

The porcelain felt like ice, terribly cold in the night air, but Charles was determined to make this right. He stoppered the tub and turned on the faucet, uncaring for how cold or hot the water was. He just needed to make this right; he didn’t care about the details. 

Taking up the hairdryer, Charles momentarily spun in a dizzy spell until he had the ability to regain his footing and plug the hair dryer into an outlet by the sink. 

For a moment, Charles simply braced himself against the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. So hyper focused was his vision that Charles found himself staring into the reflection of his own pupil, where his face looked back at him from a microscopic level. Down and down he went, until he could stand it no longer and he fell away from the sink. Back at the tub, Charles shut off the tap, hairdryer in hand though it shook from fear. 

He knew what he needed to do. He just didn’t know how to do it. 

He got in the tub, shivering at the frigid temperature. 

He had to undo the damage of the accident. He had to see if this would at least work. Let it kill him, or let it cure him. There was no other way. 

**  
  
**

“God forgive me,” Charles spoke through numb lips. “God forgive me, god forgive me god for-”

**  
  
  
**

“What in the hell are you doing?!” 

The voice was like a whip crack in the silent bathroom. So startled was Charles that he almost dropped the hair dryer. But even as his hands fumbled, he looked about to see Thomas come charging into the room wearing only his pajamas. Thomas yanked the cord out of the socket, so that the hair dryer was now useless in Charles’ hands. Thomas’ chest was heaving, as if he’d just run a race. Clearly he’d come to the bathroom for something, but had caught Charles mid act instead. Now, the pair of them were facing off, in completely foreign positions. 

“Are you mad?!” Thomas demanded, his voice far too loud for the middle of the night. “You’ll kill yourself!” 

“Keep your voice down!” The last thing Charles wanted was others getting up and seeing the carnage. 

“No, I will not!” but even as Thomas opened his mouth to undoubtedly scream, Charles stumbled from the bathtub on soggy legs and grabbed Thomas’ mouth tight so that he couldn’t utter so much as a peep. 

“I am doing no such thing!” Charles said. “Now be quiet or I’ll tan your hide!” 

Jerking back from Charles’ hand, Thomas demanded, “Then why are you about to drop a hair dryer into a bathtub full of water?!” 

Now that Charles thought about it, with Thomas before him demanding an answer, it was a very good question. Initially, he’d been so certain that if he reversed the process of electrocution the voices and the sensations would stop. But now, standing before Thomas, his mind was completely clear and he could no longer hear the whispers that had been plaguing him for over two weeks. Why? 

“...I…” Charles set the unplugged hair dryer aside on the bathroom counter. “I was trying to fix a problem.” 

“Believe it or not, I know the kind of problems that these solutions fix,” Thomas warned him. 

Charles did not answer. He sat on the rim of the tub instead, rolling up his sleeve to unplug the stopper so that the water could drain out. As he dried off his hand on his other sleeve, he noted Thomas watching him in fear. 

_ “Was he trying to kill himself?”  _ Thomas wondered. Before, Charles had thought it a trick but now? 

Now he was starting to wonder if he was actually hearing Thomas’ thoughts. 

It would make quite a lot of sense, though of course it was absolute bollocks to even suggest. No one else had been able to hear Thomas talking because, quite literally, he hadn’t been talking. At the same time, Thomas would feel perfectly free to use all sorts of colorful language inside his own head, because who would be able to hear and reprimand him? But Thomas wasn’t using colorful language now, nor was he being cruel. Instead, for the first time in their convoluted relationship, Thomas seemed very concerned for Charles’ well being. 

“I was not trying to end my life,” Charles said. 

Thomas narrowed his eyes.  _ “Then why do this?”  _ Thomas wondered. 

“It’s difficult to explain,” Charles continued, “But I was trying to fix an issue I’m currently having.” 

“And that issue is?” Thomas asked. 

But Charles wouldn’t set aside his warnings just because Thomas was being polite to his face. Thomas was, in summary, still not to be trusted with things as fragile as these. 

“Nothing you need to be concerned with,” Charles warned. 

“Well,” Thomas gestured from the bathtub to the hair dryer. “This is concerning to me.” 

“As I said.” 

Thomas let out a long suffering sigh, looking over his shoulder to where the hair dryer lay innocently upon the countertop. 

_ “Typical,”  _ Thomas thought with a bitter tone.  _ “When I try to kill myself, I’m scum. When he does it, it’s nothing to be concerned with. Just business as usual.”  _

“I am not trying to kill myself!” Charles said yet again. 

“Doesn't matter if you are,” Thomas walked over to the counter and collected the hair dryer to let the cord pile in his hands. “I’m not supposed to be concerned with it.” 

As Thomas turned to leave, he thought,  _ “It doesn’t matter what I do. I’m always the villain here. God, I hate this place.”  _

Yet as Thomas made to leave, Carson noted that his headache was slowly returning. When Thomas had been standing before him, everything made sense. Now, Charles could slowly feel the return of the ache in his mind. Why? What power did Thomas’ presence have over him? 

“Wait,” Charles called out. Thomas stopped in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. “Come back.” 

Cautiously, Thomas did so. 

The headache vanished. All was returned to normal. 

Charles could not understand why it was that when Thomas was far away, his mind had begun to crumble and his body to break. When Thomas was close, all was well. It was clear that Thomas had never been trying to play a trick on him, and had instead merely been thinking. Could it be that there was more to their connection than that of a mental link? What if it was physical too, and why? Was it because of the electrocution? Was that even possible? Was it even sane to suggest? 

“How are you doing that?” Charles wondered, hoping that Thomas would reveal some sage answer to him. 

“Doing what?” Thomas asked. 

“... I’ve been ill since you left,” Charles admitted. “Now, with you before me, I feel myself. The closer you are to me, the better I feel in return. How is this possible?” 

Thomas was taken aback. For a moment there was only silence, at least externally. Internally, however, Charles was privy to the war in Thomas’ head. 

_ “Could it be he’s toying with me?”  _ Thomas was wondering.  _ “Trying to make me say something stupid? But he wouldn’t do that, I don’t think. If what he’s saying is true, then it makes no sense. I mean… I’ve been feeling a little poorly yes, but nothing I haven’t felt before. Maybe it’s something I’m wearing? It can’t be the Ponds cream, surely.”  _

Charles was taken aback to learn that Thomas wore Ponds, considering it was a skin cream specifically marketed to women. 

“I don’t know,” Thomas admitted aloud. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it, particularly from me, but you really ought to go see Dr. Clarkson and I think you know it.” 

_ “What if this is because of the accident we both suffered,”  _ Thomas wondered.  _ “Maybe it’s got something to do with the elec-- oh!”  _ Thomas’ eyes widened a bit though he said nothing aloud.  _ “That’s why he had the hair dryer. He was trying to electrocute himself to see if it fixed him! Well that won’t do. It must be something Dr. Clarkson can help with. He should never have tried to fix this by himself.”  _

And frankly? Thomas was right. 

“...Yes.” Charles agreed. “Yes, I think that might be best.” 

Thomas nodded, turning away and taking the hair dryer with him.  _ “Well I won’t leave this here either way, in case he tries to do it again. I sleep with it in my room.. Actually, I think I’d like to use it and see what it does to my hair. Maybe it’ll give me my volume back, I’ve been terribly drab lately-”  _

In his own head, where none could hear him, Thomas was oddly fickle and endearing like a woman. Charles almost smiled. 

“And Thomas?” Charles called out to him, just as Thomas reached the door. Thomas looked over his shoulder again, oddly more calm than before. “Don’t tell anyone of what you’ve seen.” 

Without a speck of cheek, Thomas replied, “Wasn’t planning on it, Mr. Carson.” 

**  
  
  
As he left down the hall, Charles heard him think  _ “I know what it feels like, to want to die.”  _  
**


	3. Balancing Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles discovers he is a sentinel.   
> Thomas discovers he is a guide  
> Neither are happy about it.

Despite having nearly electrocuted himself twice in a single month, Charles found that common sense was in abundance after the return of the normal staff. His headaches stopped, his senses (quite literally) began to return to normal, and for all intents and purposes the hysteria of the prior week was nothing more than a bad dream. 

And yet, Charles could not shake off the feeling that something was  _ still _ very wrong. 

**  
  
**

There were times when Charles would take tea, and he could swear there were spots in the water that no one else could see. He would be sitting in his office decanting wine, and the very sound would feel almost thunderous. Maybe he could blame it on age, maybe not, but Charles was starting to get nervous. He hated to be a bother, and more to the point he hated to take time away from work, but something had to be done. So, Charles rang Dr. Clarkson and made an appointment for a time when Thomas and Elsie could sufficiently run the house without him. He made his way down to Downton Village Hospital, rolled up his sleeves like a big boy, and prepared to hear the worst. Cancer. Alzheimers. Dementia.

What he heard, instead, was in due course to change his life so radically and so thoroughly, that he would never live another day the same. 

**  
  
  
**

“Well, I won’t lie,” Dr. Clarkson rose up from his rolling chair, rifling through paperwork that looked as old as Charles’ grandmother. “Your symptoms are peculiar to say the least, but I’ve been doing some research and I’ve found something rather amazing.” 

At this, Dr. Clarkson pulled out one book in particular to show it to Charles. It was old, so much so that the edges were crumbling. Charles took it, the stench of decaying parchment heavy in his nose. At the top in old english read the phrase:  _ Sentinels and Their Guides.  _ It featured the image of a man and woman entwined. 

“Amazing, how do you mean?” 

“Well, it turns out that there is a condition, usually which occurs from birth, but it can develop afterwards through trauma. It’s rare, and for many years it can go unnoticed. It’s called being a ‘Sentinel’.” 

Charles looked up, agog. “A what?” 

“A sentinel,” Dr. Clarkson repeated wisely. He took the book back from Charles to read it at his leisure. “It’s a person whose five senses are heightened to the point of insanity. They likewise have a heightened sixth sense as well, but this is where it gets curious.” 

Charles scoffed “Oh  _ now  _ it gets curious-” It seemed like fantasy. Dribble! 

“The sixth sense is incorporated in the body of another person,” Dr. Clarkson explained. “This is a sort of Romeo to Juliet, if you will. The person is known as a ‘guide’, and they can help control their sentinel and pull them out of what is called a ‘zone out’, which I believe is what you experienced several nights ago. Did you feel like your senses had overwhelmed you?” 

That was hardly the term to describe it. It had been hell on earth, and an experience that Charles wasn’t keen to replicate. “God, did I.” 

“Let’s see if we can’t confirm it with some tests.” Dr. Clarkson said. Charles watched, curious, as Dr. Clarkson stooped behind his desk to pull out five little jars sitting upon a wooden board in neat iron rings. They were completely identical in size, shape, and color, with clear liquid swirling around inside of them. 

“I’ve prepared this little test for today,” Dr. Clarkson said. “It’s one of the ways to discover if a person is a sentinel. Inside each of these jars is water, save that one of them has a microscopic drop of arsenic. It’s odorless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in water, and is one of the leading poisons world wide over. Now, an ordinary person would have no way of knowing which jar contains arsenic, but if you’re a sentinel you will. I’ll then confirm it with a blotting paper used for chemical compounds. Shall we try?” 

Slightly confused but still determined, Charles sat up a little straighter in his chair as Dr. Clarkson set the glasses before him. As each one was unlidded, Charles found himself lingering over the tops, staring down into the jars. 

It was true, they seemed completely the same, save that the jar second on the left had a faintly sweet odor to it. Wary, Charles picked the offending glass up and sniffed it. 

An explosion of color appeared behind his closed eyes, of pinks and purples that popped dangerously in his brain. 

When he opened his eyes again, Dr. Clarkson was staring at him with an amazed smile upon his face. 

“...This one?” Charles offered the glass forward. 

“Let us see,” Dr. Clarkson said, though he was already grinning. Tearing off a piece of blotting paper from a pad within his desk, Dr. Clarkson let it dip into the water where it instantly began to turn hot pink. It was the same color that Charles had seen behind his eyelids. 

“... Well that proves it,” Dr. Clarkson declared with pride. “You’re a sentinel. I don’t know whether to congratulate you or offer my condolences… Given that you don’t know who your guide is, you’re bound for a world of torment until you find them.” 

Charles slumped against the visitor’s chair, suddenly quite drained at the prospect of finding his guide. How long would it be until another zone out occurred? Would he survive it a second time?

“How do I find my guide?” Charles asked. 

“Well, from what I’ve read, it seems that every sentinel on record has been able to hear the voices of their guides, even if their guide is not speaking,” Dr. Clarkson mused. “It’s a companionesque feature of the guide, and we’re still trying to understand it as a science. Some sentinels have claimed that they can even see glimpses of their guide when their guide is apart, or have insight into their dreams. But if you’re a sentinel, then that means you have a guide too, and we must find them.” 

Charles stood from his chair, dumbfounded. 

“Carson?” Dr. Clarkson asked. 

_ Every sentinel had a guide,  _ that was what Dr. Clarkson had said,  _ and every sentinel could hear their guide’s voice inside their head.  _

Charles could sit there claiming ignorance all day, but it wouldn’t change the fact that for the past several weeks, he’d been hearing Thomas Barrow talk to him without moving his lips. He’d thought it a trick, but hadn’t been able to source out the root of it. He’d thought it a hallucination, but it had been so real, so obviously real…. 

“.... I…” Charles feared telling Dr. Clarkson the truth, but if the man was right then what he was about to say wouldn’t sound all that mad. “I think I know who my guide is.” 

“Who?” Dr. Clarkson asked at once. “We must find them, lest your mental state decline rapidly.” 

“... I’ve been hearing a voice inside my head,” Charles admitted. Dr. Clarkson listened with rapt attention, his gray eyes gleaming brightly from a mystery to be solved. “I thought I was losing my mind at first, but now? Now I think that perhaps what you’ve said is the answer.” 

“It must be!” Dr. Clarkson smacked his palm with a balled fist in delight. “Do you recognize the voice? Is it male or female?” 

“... It’s Barrow,” Charles said. 

Dr. Clarkson was taken aback, his expression flickering into disbelief. 

“What?” Now he was the one repeating questions. 

“... I’ve been hearing Thomas Barrow’s voice inside my head for weeks,” Charles said. Dr. Clarkson’s eyes widened inexplicably. 

“Is that why you said he was saying awful things when he hadn’t been speaking?” Dr. Clarkson asked. “All those weeks ago in the hospital?” 

“Yes!” Charles cried out. He almost felt elated with relief; thank god, someone would listen to him. “And he was saying awful things-- he was just saying them inside his head.” 

“I don’t know what to say…” Dr. Clarkson drug a hand over his mouth, returning to his swivel chair to sit in it. He thought for several moments in aching silence. “I’m stunned. If Barrow is your guide, then you must try and stay close to him. Does he know about any of this?” 

“No,” Charles snapped. God, could one imagine such horrors? “And I don’t want him being told.” But it wasn’t that, not by a long shot. Charles desperately needed Thomas’ help, he just didn’t know how to ask for it. Who was to say that this time, of all times, Thomas would listen and comply? 

“Mr. Carson, he has a right to know,” Dr. Clarskon said, his tone urging. “This involves him just as much as it involves you.”

Charles didn’t quite know what to say to that. Taking pity on him, Dr. Clarkson gently changed the subject to offer him up the sentinel book again. 

“I want you to read this,” Dr. Clarkson said. “It might be old, but it’s still relevant for sentinels and guides. Learn more about the culture of it, and the science. It may help you for the next time you feel like you’re close to a zone out. There are breathing methods, and other things of note.” 

This ought to have brought him great joy, for any relief from a zone out was relief he would take. But Charles was more entranced by the cover of the novel, which featured a man and a woman entwined from wrist to ankle. 

He could never imagine himself in such a position with Thomas Barrow, but now it seemed he didn’t have much of a choice. 

**  
  
**

Walking home, Charles could not help but feel born utterly anew. He was baffled, grappling with the bizarre concept that he and Thomas Barrow were now the opposite sides of the same coin. He read as he walked, nearly stumbling upon a pebble or two. 

_ “The Greeks and Romans declared that Sentinels were messengers of the gods, meant to be used as tools to communicate their will-”  _ Charles was enraptured, imagining himself as some kind of hero in a myth.  _ “Little did they know that halfway across the world, the Chinese had come to the exact same conclusion, only to the point that they thought sentinels were meant to be used as tools of the emperor. A little closer to home, the Druids used Sentinels as a diving rod for the future and a way to make contact with the dead. In truth, a Sentinel is none of these things.”  _

Charles nearly walked off the road, and decided to stop reading until he got back to the house. As it stood, the top turrets of Downton were visible over the crest of the hill. 

Steeling himself for the multitude of confusing conversations ahead of him, Charles took the backroad around the western side of the abbey, which lead him to the tradesmen’s gate, and the servant’s area. He was greeted by the pleasant sight of his wife. 

“Charles!” Elsie was outside, overseeing the hall boys who were unloading a truck full of supplies for Mrs. Patmore. “Thank god you’re back. Now tell me-” She stepped aside, pulling him slightly towards the barn where Branson now worked on cars in his spare time. “Did you see Dr. Clarkson?” 

“I did,” Charles nodded. 

“And what did he say?” 

“Well--” Charles pulled her even farther, taking her directly into the barn itself and closing the door so that they could have some version of privacy. “You’re not going to believe this… but he’s told me that I’ve developed some ability known as a ‘sentinel’.” 

“A what?” Elsie asked, agog. In response, Charles handed her the novel that Dr. Clarkson had leant. 

Elsie opened it at once, turning page after page till her eyes were as round as coins. 

“Both born and made, the heightened senses of a sentinel can be defined as mystical and godlike, with the ability to hear through layers a mile thick, see details beyond the naked eye, smell even the faintest trace of odor, and taste that which would be imperceptible to any other-” Elsie looked up in wonder. 

“Charlie… how can this be?” She asked. “This doesn’t even sound real-” 

“I didn’t believe it either, but Dr. Clarkson tested me,” Charles said. “He had me smell arsenic out of these pots of water, the tiniest drop and I could smell it as easily as if I were scenting one of Mrs. Patmore’s plum puddings. It’s the truth, Elsie.” 

Elsie looked back down at the book, turning to the next page. 

“Very often prone to ‘zoning out’ and being overfocused on one of the senses, sentinels are completed and protected by their guide. Guides are destined to find their sentinel, and may or may not have a soulbond with them--” Elsie paused, flipping a few more pages. 

“Without a guide, a sentinel is destined to a lifetime of misery. A guide must be uncovered and kept as close as possible for a sentinel to be fully in control of their powers and not overcome by their senses. Sentinels are often incredibly dominant over their guides, protecting them in a capacity often seen in the animal kingdom between mothers and their cubs. As such the sentinel can sense their guide’s thoughts, and often have the closest bond with them. It is advisable that sentinels either marry their guides or at the very least live in the same residence with them so that a sentinel may maintain optimal health.” 

Elsie was gray faced, frightened of the future. “My god, we have to find your guide, Charles! This book says if you don’t have one, you’ll be in serious danger! No wonder the other night you were fit to burst-” 

“Wait, calm down-” Charles tried to shush Elsie, but she only waved him off. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” She warned. “We have to find your guide!” 

“I’ve already found him!” 

Elsie’s eyes seemed to spark with a fever of delight. She clasped Charles’ hands in her own. “Then who is it?” 

When Charles did not immediately answer, Elsie became crestfallen. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is it someone we know?” 

“... It’s Thomas,” Charles whispered. 

Elsie sucked in a noticeable breath. 

In the silence that followed, both of them could hear the sound of the hall boys calling for more hands and the back door to be opened. The sputtering of a truck made it clear that the delivery was finished and Mrs. Patmore had received her goods. 

“... Thomas,” Elsie repeated back. 

“Yes.” 

“Charlie, you have to tell him,” Elsie would not take no for an answer, her brown eyes blazing. 

“Not yet,” Charles begged. 

“Well at least talk to him, say something-” Elsie huffed “The sooner you get it over with the better. Or do you want to have another one of those… one of those… oh what were they called-?” She looked back over her shoulder quizzically as she opened the door to the barn. 

“Zone outs,” Charles supplied, leaving the barn right behind her. 

“Zone outs!” Elsie snapped her fingers. “Well do you?” 

“Frankly I would rather be shot,” Charles grumbled. 

“Then there you have it,” Elsie turned away. 

“But you can’t pretend this will be easy!” Charles complained. Elsie and Charles returned to the servant’s area only to find Thomas sitting at the workbench smoking and reading. Elsie paused mid-step, nearly colliding with Charles before leaning in and whispering in his ear. 

“Easy or not, it must be done, Charlie,” Elsie warned him. “Or you’re the one that’ll suffer for it.” and before Charles could call her back she walked right past Thomas where he sat smoking. 

“Mr. Barrow,” She greeted him. 

“Mrs. Hughes,”Was his reply. Charles noted that Thomas’ eyes trailed after her as she left through the back door. 

_ “Is she alright?”  _ Thomas thought.  _ “She looks worried about summat.”  _ He turned back to his smoking, somehow looking more tired than before. He returned to his book, flipping a page. 

Charles approached, cautious with every step that he took. 

Now that he knew he was a sentinel, and Thomas was his guide, it became blindingly apparent that Thomas had an immediate effect upon both his body and his mind. With Thomas near, Charles felt calmer than he had in an age, with each breath coming easier than the last. It was as if an enormous weight had been lifted off his shoulders. 

“Mr. Barrow,” Charles said. Thomas gave a start, looking up with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He stubbed his out, blowing two long columns of smoke through his nostrils. 

“Mr. Carson,” Thomas said. 

_ “Christ, here we go,”  _ Thomas thought.  _ “What have I done wrong now?”  _

“... I wanted to let you know that I went to Dr. Clarkson today,” Charles said. Thomas blanched, confused as to why he was being confided in. 

“I-- Good?” Thomas muttered.  _ “What the hell do I say to that?”  _ Thomas thought. 

“I wanted to thank you for the other night,” Charles explained. “And I apologize if I shocked you.” 

_ “The irony in being told a hairdryer might shock me,”  _ Thomas thought sarcastically. On the outside, however, Thomas kept a demure expression. 

“Believe it or not, I know what it feels like to want to die,” Thomas replied. 

“I didn’t want to die, Thomas,” Charles said. “I wanted to cure myself. I--” But Charles just couldn’t say it, not now when he didn’t know how Thomas would respond. He needed more time to think, more time to plan out just exactly what he was going to say. “I’ve developed a condition, in lieu of our shared accident. I thought if I could reverse the process, I could cure myself of it. I was mentally unwell that night.” 

_ “That’s a fucking word for it,”  _ Thomas thought. 

“Right well,” Thomas rose up from the workbench, making to return to the house. “Glad you’re back, I guess-” 

“Wait.” 

Thomas paused, his hand outstretched towards the door knob. 

Every step that Thomas took away from him, Charles felt himself lose just a little more stability. He desperately needed Thomas close, but even more so he needed an excuse to keep him there. There was no way he could feasibly serve the family and run the house if he was constantly in danger of zone-outs. But telling Thomas the truth was by far the worse option. 

“... I… I wanted to speak to you regarding your career,” Charles said. Thomas went gray, his hand slipping to his side. 

_ “Oh god not this,”  _ Thomas thought in despair.  _ “I can’t-- I don’t--”  _ his brain was beginning to fog, with that hissing noise ever more apparent in Charles’ ears. So this was what the sound originated from! It was the sound of Thomas panicking internally. 

“I mean you no distress,” Charles said. At once, the hissing in Thomas’ mind began to dwindle. Thomas was sweating, Charles could see it up close. He could practically feel Thomas’ heart pounding in his chest. 

“I have nowhere else to go, Mr. Carson,” Thomas begged. 

“I’m not telling you to leave,” Charles assured him at once. “I’m telling you that I want you to stay. That I want to train you as a butler in my stead.” 

Thomas just stared, agog. 

_ “What the sodding hell?”  _ Thomas wondered.  _ “Is he serious? He wants to train me to be a butler? But I thought he hated me. And how long would this position last anyways? I’ll immediately be thrown out again when budget cuts are made.”  _

But Charles couldn’t let Thomas be thrown out. He needed Thomas close lest disaster strike. 

“It was wrong of me to treat you as a cast off,” Charles noted that as he spoke, Thomas looked close to questioning if he was having a stroke or not. “And Lord Grantham has shown me that I ought to remember that no man is an island, including you. The role of under butler is vanishing, but a butler is forever.” 

Though Thomas said nothing, he thought,  _ “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”  _

Charles coughed, aware that the silence between them was growing. “As I say, I want you to train beneath me so that you may take over for me eventually when I retire.” 

He doubted that day would be coming any time soon. It was a convenient enough excuse to keep Thomas close until he could think up a more convenient lie. But Thomas didn’t look impressed. He narrowed his eyes, wary as he spoke. 

“So… in effect,” Thomas shifted upon the work bench. “If I’m training under you I’m a-” 

“Butler in training,” Charles replied quickly. 

“An under butler.” Thomas finished lamely. Their words crossed over one another. Charles’ cheeks flushed, well aware that Thomas had caught him out. He hated to admit it, but the man was right. 

“Yes,” Charles said. 

Thomas rolled his eyes, thinking,  _ “Unbelievable. It’s fine when he decides it’s fine. It’s a miracle he can get through the door with his head so swollen.”  _

Thomas took a long suffering breath, then declared. “As you wish, Mr. Carson.” With this, he rose to his feet, stubbed out his cigarette, and returned inside to leave Charles feeling a bit like a fool in the area yard. 

Still, at least now he knew how to keep Thomas close. 

~*~

Every day started the same, with Charles waking up alongside his Elsie around four thirty in the morning for a quick shower, a spot of breakfast, and a brisk walk to the abbey. It ended in much the same way, with Charles returning home around eleven at night, for another quick shower, a spot of tea, and newfound determination to tell Thomas Barrow that he was a guide. 

_ I shall tell him tomorrow,  _ Charles always told himself.  _ I shall take him aside into my office and explain the whole affair.  _

But he never did. He was too much of a coward. Thomas didn’t frighten him, not in the slightest! Thomas’  _ moods  _ however… oh they were wicked things meant for fairy tales to scare children into being good. 

Charles didn’t know if it was because Thomas was a homosexual, or if it was because he was just fickle, but his moods and acerbic tongue could be so sharp and vicious that if Charles were a pear he’d have been sliced and diced before tea time. But his skin was as thick as a tire by now, and he wasn’t rumpled when Thomas hissed and spat about everything that bothered him. What really disturbed him was Thomas’ thoughts, which ranged through the day on an array of such lurid and shocking topics that Charles could barely believe it.

Which, succinctly, was why Charles had not told Thomas as of yet that he was his guide. He was much too enraptured with listening to Thomas’ thoughts unheeded. 

Of course, Charles’ fascination with Thomas’ thoughts did not go appreciated by Dr. Clarkson, who upon calling Charles for a weekly checkup found the situation unchanged. 

Slumped at his desk, Charles scowled at nothing in particular while he drummed his fingers irritably upon his desk. On the other end of the phone, he had a feeling Dr. Clarkson was doing much the same. 

_ “Have you told him yet?”  _ Dr. Clarkson asked. 

“No,” Charles admitted. He felt a bit like a school boy being chastised by his teacher. 

_ “You need to tell him,”  _ Dr. Clarkson urged.  _ “Guides are essential to their sentinels! You have to sit down with him and tell him the full truth.”  _

“As if he would believe me,” Charles complained, picking idly at his fingernails. On the other end, Dr. Clarkson’s chair gave an audible squeak. 

_ “Then I’ll help you,”  _ Dr. Clarkson said.  _ “Tonight, I’ll come over after dinner and pretend to have a meeting with the two of you regarding your health after the accident. We can tell him then.”  _

Something wary churned in the pit of Charles’ stomach, but he had no reason to deny Dr. Clarkson. If anything, the man was spot on and it was high time to get all this unpleasantness behind them. The sooner it was over with the better. At least now, Charles wouldn’t have to do it alone. 

“As you wish,” he said. He made his excuses, and hung up the phone. 

**  
  
  
  
**

For the rest of the day, Charles waited in wretched anticipation that nothing could quell. Now that he knew Dr. Clarkson was coming, he couldn’t put away the idea of what was soon to follow. Thomas learning that Charles could hear his thoughts, and absolutely losing his mind. 

Oh-! Charles would never get another night’s peace. 

Why couldn’t his guide be someone like Elsie or Anna? Someone whom he knew and trusted well? Why did it have to be the one person on earth whom he was certain was plotting his demise? 

As the servant’s took their dinner and finished up with a round of soft cheese, butter, and water crackers, Charles kept his eye methodically upon the mantel clock by the fireplace. Any moment now, he was certain that Dr. Clarkson would call. 

Thomas was by the fireside, reading a book of poetry by Dorothy Parker. He was captivated, which Charles knew simply because he could hear Thomas thinking about the poetry even as he read it. 

Chewing upon his thumbnail (a disgusting habit that Charles desperately wanted Thomas to break), Thomas read with wonder: 

_ “That a heart falls tinkling down, never think it ceases. Every likely lad in town gathers up the pieces. If there’s one gone whistling by, would I let it grieve me? Let him wonder if I lie; let him half believe me ….”  _ At this, Thomas palmed his chin in his hand. 

_ “Makes me think of Jimmy,”  _ Thomas thought glumly.  _ “He went whistling by. Never even noticed me.”  _

_ You are my guide,  _ Charles wondered in disbelief.  _ You, of all people, are what keeps me whole and sane. How could it be possible?  _

But he didn’t have long to contemplate on his sticky situation. The back door bell rang with a sharp clatter, causing Gertie the scullery maid to drop her sewing and go running for the servant’s hall. This late at night, Andrew was loath to answer for a tradesman. Soon enough, Gertie was back, trotting at a gentle pace upon feet swollen from a hard day’s labor. 

“Mr. Carson, Dr. Clarkson is here,” Gertie said. “He says he’s come for a meeting.” 

“Ah, very good,” Charles rose out of his seat, gesturing for Thomas who was still absorbed in his book of poetry by the fire. “Mr. Barrow?” 

Thomas jerked, sucked back into waking reality by the sound of his name. When he realized that Charles was calling for him, he dog-eared the page he was reading and then set the book aside to join him by the table. 

“Mr. Carson,” Thomas said. 

“Come with me,” Charles commanded. Thomas looked far from pleased as they headed down the hall towards Charles’ office. Coming up the hall was Dr. Clarkson, offering his traveling coat and his hat to Gertie who hung them on a peg by the door. The man looked terribly tired after a long day of work at the hospital. Charles did not envy his chosen profession. 

“Ah, excellent-” Dr. Clarkson shook Charles’ hand, as if all of this were normal. “Shall we?” 

“Shall we what?” Thomas wondered, wary. 

“Let’s use my office,” Charles said, as if that hadn’t been the plan all along. They entered, only to be paused by Elsie coming up the hallway with a clipboard in hand. Clearly she’d been helping Mrs. Patmore with the pantry. 

“Is everything alright, Mr. Carson?” She asked, unsure. 

“As a matter of fact, Mrs. Hughes, won’t you join us?” This would only serve to help Charles more. Elsie knew the truth too, so it wouldn’t matter whether or not she was involved with the meeting. Plus, he could not deny that Thomas had a much better rapport with her (though as to why he could not say). 

“Don’t mind if I do,” As the last person to enter Charles’ office, Elsie closed the door to the hall so that way they could speak in privacy. Clustered together, Thomas looked ashen and sweaty. Charles took his seat behind his desk, gesturing for the others to sit down. Everyone did so, save for Thomas, who was still on edge. 

“If I may ask, what is this about Mr. Carson?” Thomas asked. 

_ “What the hell is this?”  _ Charles could hear the panic mounting in Thomas’ head.  _ “What have I done now?”  _

“You’re not in any sort of trouble, Thomas,” Charles explained. “Dr. Clarkson wants to speak with the pair of us regarding our shared accident.” 

“... I see.” Thomas sat on the edge of Charles’ visitors chair, looking half-ready to leap out of it as soon as he could. 

Dr. Clarkson looked to Charles first. “Have you told him anything?” 

“No I have not,” Charles said. Elsie made a sound of knowing, her beautiful brown eyes now keen. It seemed she’d caught onto the real reason for their discussion. 

“Told who what?” Thomas asked. 

“Thomas,” Dr. Clarkson swiveled about in his seat to face the man head on. “Something very important has happened, and it’s vital that you be informed for Mr. Carson’s health.” 

Thomas was taken aback.  _ “Am I hallucinating this?”  _ Thomas wondered. 

“Why on earth am I vital to Mr. Carson’s health?” Thomas asked. Instead of answering outright, Dr. Clarkson went for a more gentle method. It was like the man thought Thomas to be a wild horse, easily spooked and slow to trust. 

“Have you ever heard of a sentinel, Thomas?” Dr. Clarkson asked. Charles felt his breath beginning to catch in his chest, and glanced at Elsie to note that she too was nervous. Everything now hinged on Dr. Clarkson being able to adequately explain. But who was to say how Thomas would respond? 

“Vaguely,” Thomas admitted. “I’ve read about it once or twice.” 

“Do you know what it is?” 

“Only that it’s a person with heightened senses,” Thomas said. “An’ that it’s rare.” 

“Indeed,” Dr. Clarkson clasped his hands behind his back. “A sentinel is a person with extremely heightened senses in regards to sight, taste, smell, touch, and hearing. They likewise have a sixth sense that is normally not found in humans. That sense, however, is not found within the sentinel themselves but is instead found in the form of another person whom the sentinel shares an incredibly close mental bond with. They are called a guide. You could consider them the separate sides of a coin. Did you know this?” 

Thomas tilted his head in thought, eyes narrowed.  _ “Didn’t I hear a song about it once?”  _ he thought. 

“I think I heard it mentioned during the war,” Thomas replied, slower than usual. “A few of the higher up chaps were sentinels. They could predict attacks before they happened. But I never saw them in person.” 

“I see.” Dr. Clarkson said. 

“Why?” Thomas asked. “Why does it matter whether or not I’ve heard of Sentinels and all their bits and bods. Why does it involve me, or Mr. Carson’s health for that matter? None of this is making any sense.” 

“It will,” Dr. Clarkson replied. “Because you see, Thomas, Mr. Carson came to me with complaints recently, symptoms rather, that fit the bill for a sentinel. I administered a round of tests, and my hypothesis was confirmed. Mr. Carson, due to the accident that you shared, has been awakened to his abilities as a sentinel.” 

Thomas blinked.  _ “I’m going insane,”  _ he thought.  _ “Carson’s a sentinel? Christ this is going to be interesting. I wonder if he can hear people talking through walls? I’ll have to be more careful when I masterbate-- oh but that’s right he doesn’t live in the attics anymore.”  _ Thomas tilted his head, eyes narrowed.  _ “Well then, I guess it’s back to moaning.”  _

Charles flushed bright red. Dear  _ god  _ the things that came out of that boy’s mouth-! Er… that was to say, mind. 

“Congratulations,” Thomas replied lamely. “Why does this involve me?” 

“Because, Mr. Carson has told me that when you are near, he feels more in control of himself. More calm and stable. These are all signs that you are his guide.” 

Thomas spluttered outright, eyes bulging from shock. “What?” He was clearly horrified. “No, that can’t be right-” 

_ “Bloomin’ hell, this is a nightmare-!”  _ Thomas thought in a panic. 

“Thomas, he can hear-” Dr. Clarkson began, but before Charles knew what he was doing, he cut Dr. Clarkson off sharply to steer the direction of the conversation himself. 

“Before when you left to go to London, you’ll recall how I acted peculiarly?” Charles asked. 

Dr. Clarkson stared at him, slowly closing his mouth. 

He didn’t want Thomas to know that he could hear his thoughts. 

Not now, not ever. Not until he was ready. 

“Yes,” Thomas swallowed nervously. 

“It was because the distance between us was causing my senses to go haywire,” Charles explained. “What I experience is known as a zone-out. And you returning, and finding me in the bathroom… stopped it,” Charles said. 

Thomas’ eyes widened instinctively. 

Quite suddenly, Charles was privy to something he’d never experienced before. He was suddenly hearing his own voice in Thomas’ mind. He never realized how deep and rumbling his voice was, how much of a baritone he was.

_ “... I’ve been ill since you left. Now, with you before me, I feel myself. The closer you are to me, the better I feel in return. How is this possible?”  _

Thomas sucked in a horrified breath. 

_ “Oh god,”  _ Thomas thought in fear.  _ “Oh god, what if it’s true?”  _

“...But…” Thomas swallowed again. Charles could hear the fizzing of panic in his brain. “What does this mean for me? Am I-- am I going to go mad too?” 

“Mr. Carson is not mad, Thomas,” Dr. Clarkson said. “And neither are you.” 

“Can I get rid of it?” Thomas asked quickly. 

_ “Maybe I should run away,”  _ Thomas thought, which rather stung Charles.  _ “But I haven’t any money.”  _

“No,” Dr. Clarkson waved his hands, trying to calm Thomas down. “It’s not something one gets rid of, Thomas. You and Mr. Carson have a unique bond now, and in order for Mr. Carson not to be destroyed mentally and physically, you must now nurture that bond.” 

But Thomas was already beginning to shake his head. Dr. Clarkson just kept speaking, as if hoping that by sheer force of will alone, he could make Thomas agree. 

“Most guides stay by their sentinel’s sides constantly. Many are married, but all of them certainly live in the same house-” 

“No,” Thomas blurted out. It was as if he was being threatened with imprisonment, “No I will not do that.” 

_ “I would rather die,”  _ Thomas thought in fear. Charles was taken aback. He knew that the man didn’t enjoy his company but this… this was on another level. He didn’t realize just how much Thomas loathed him. It made him sick to his stomach. 

“You don’t have a choice, Thomas,” Dr. Clarkson warned. “Either you help Mr. Carson, or he goes mad. End of story.” 

Thomas looked from Dr. Clarkson, to Charles, to Elsie in turn, all of whom stared back at Thomas hoping against hope that he might be reasoned with. That he might-- 

“Then he goes mad,” Thomas replied, his voice deadly soft and serious. 

He turned, and without another word left the three of them in Charles’ office. 

**  
  
**

Elsie turned, and said in clipped tones. “Well. That went very nice indeed.” 

~*~ 

**  
  
**

_ “Either you help Mr. Carson or he goes mad. End of story.”  _

Indeed, it certainly felt like the slamming of a book. 

It might have been close to stealing, but after being revealed for a guide to a sentinel Thomas could think of only one thing to do. He’d run up to the library, with the family tucked safely in bed, and had taken one of Lord Grantham’s books on sentinels without signing it out. This was, of course, quite forbidden at Downton. 

He read and read through the night, pouring over every page in a desperate search for an answer to his present situation. The idea of being forced to associate with Carson in any sense made his skin crawl. Being a guide just seemed all the worse, for every paragraph on them seemed to insist they were ‘beloved items’ of their sentinel’s comparable to ‘submissive vassals’ that obeyed their sentinel’s every whim if only to keep them sane and whole. There were whole chapters on the intimate relations between sentinels and their guides, including how guides apparently soothed a sentinel on the verge of a zone out. It all felt so horribly sexual and intimate, two things that Thomas was determined never to be with Carson. 

So what then was left for him? 

Dawn broke on a world still lacking answers, though by now Thomas had finished the book and was simply reading it through a second time. He heard Albert the hall boy call for six o’clock, and had to shut off his alarm clock when it began ringing. Thomas hadn’t even changed out of his black and whites from the day before. An hour passed, then two, and still Thomas did not make to change or go downstairs. He didn’t want to face Carson. He didn’t want to look the man in the eye and share an ‘intimate’ moment with him. 

He wanted to hide for the rest of his life and never be found. 

At 8:35 in the morning, a curt knock came upon Thomas’ door. Thomas bristled, wondering if it was Carson, only to be mildly surprised as Mrs. Hughes opened the door. She poked her head in, looking curiously about, then spotted him at his desk and glowered. 

“Are we to expect you downstairs for breakfast?” Mrs. Hughes asked. It was like she was speaking to a child. 

“...No.” Thomas said, turning another page. 

Mrs. Hughes let out a terse sigh, before turning and shutting the door so that they were hidden in Thomas’ room. 

“Thomas,” She spoke with a firm if slightly kind tone, reminding him far too much of his mother. “I understand that you’re upset or frightened, but this is a very serious situation, and it requires you to face facts like an adult.” 

But Mrs. Hughes could not possibly understand. Carson had nearly driven him to the brink of death, had pushed him to suicide and so much more. The idea of having to share a connection with the man, of having to live in the same house and stay by his side constantly? It was like the lowest circle of hell. 

“I refuse to be chained to the ankle of a man that drove me to suicide,” Thomas replied. He did not look at Mrs. Hughes as he said it, too embarrassed by the weight of his words. He had not wanted to live, but she had not allowed him to die. Her, Andy, Baxter… all of them had forced him to carry on like a good little soldier. At times, he hated them for it. 

“Mr. Carson did not drive you to do… that…” Mrs. Hughes might have been more opened minded, but even she had a hard time saying the facts aloud. 

“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you,” Thomas muttered, deciding to return to his book. 

He turned a page, examining a chart that showed the diagram of a sentinel’s nose compared to the nose of a regular human. 

“What are you going to do?” Mrs. Hughes asked. 

Thomas let out an exasperated sigh, setting his book aside. 

“I’m going to find a way to break the bond, and I’m going to do it,” He declared. 

“I don’t think that’s possible,” she said. 

“It says here, it can be broken with death,” Thomas gestured with the book in both hands. “So it can be done.” 

“Well then,” She replied in clipped tones. “Shall I ring the undertakers or the police first? You could always slip cyanide into Mr. Carson’s tea-- oh but wait now he can smell that.” Mrs. Hughes glowered at him. 

Well aware that he was being mocked, Thomas pursed his lips and returned to his book. “Well there’s got to be another way.” 

“I doubt it.” She said. “So I do hope you come around. I’m trying to be gracious and welcome you into my home. I would appreciate it if you were pleasant about it.” She headed for the door, pausing as she made to leave. “I remember a time when you made trouble, Thomas. I would appreciate it if you didn’t make it for my family.” She left, shutting the door after him. For all the irritation in her voice, it was like she’d slammed it. 

Thomas let out a long breath through his nose, fingers trembling upon the book he held. 

~*~ 

Despite Charles sending Elsie upstairs to fetch Thomas for breakfast, Charles did not see Thomas until mid-morning after the family was served their breakfast. As he walked through the halls of Downton’s basement, Charles felt like he was a mouse scouting for a piece of cheese. Despite not having seen Thomas, Charles felt almost drawn to the pantry by an invisible string that pulled at his navel. He knew, almost instinctively, that Thomas was hiding there. Why, he could not say. Perhaps it was just another instance of being a sentinel and having a guide. 

Sure enough, the pantry door was unlocked with no keys, a clear sign that Thomas was the one inside. Elsie always left her keys in so that Mrs. Patmore could come and go as she needed. Thomas, however, preferred to keep his keys in his pocket out of mistrust. 

He had to coax Thomas into living with him; he simply had to! Dr. Clarkson was right, he could not go on like this, living on the bare fringes of sanity. He had to regain his composure, and the only way that he could do that was through Thomas. If it meant compromise or gentle negotiations, so be it. 

Tentatively, Charles opened the pantry door and found Thomas inside. He had his back turned, and was ticking off boxes methodically as he counted supplies for cleaning. 

Thomas bristled, sensing Charles in the doorway. Perhaps he too was gaining a sixth sense about these things. 

_ “Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone,”  _ Thomas thought, head bowed as he worked on the inventory. 

“I’m afraid I cannot leave you alone, Thomas,” Charles said. 

Thomas sighed, looked up with a despairing glance.  _ “God fuck me,”  _ he thought. 

“I wanted to speak with you regarding our new situation,” Charles said. Still, Thomas did not reply to him. 

“I need you to be near me through the day if I am to serve the family fully,” Charles said. “And I’m not above informing Lord Grantham if it’ll insure your compliance.” 

Thomas pursed his lips, looking down. Though he continued to slowly tick away at boxes on the inventory, Charles could tell that Thomas was listening intently. That he was trying to find a way out of this, and failing. 

Sensing that a more delicate approach was required, Charles leaned in and spoke in subtle tones. He noted that while Thomas did not look at him, he did stop writing. 

“I need you,” Charles said. “I need you to move into my house, and help me. I need you to help me for the rest of my life, be it long or short… because if you do not help me, I will most certainly die a wretch. And I know for all your kicking and fussing, you don’t want that. I know your heart would not want to bear that burden.” 

Thomas slowly began to write again, speaking in the same soft subtle tones as Charles. “Why should I help you though, if you think about it? You treated me like dirt an’ thought I was heartless. You wanted me gone. Well now you need me, an’ you expect me to treat you nicely. Seems a bit like fair play to me.” 

_ “Maybe this is karma for both of us,”  _ Thomas mused.  _ “A sort of double hell.”  _

Charles sighed, well aware that Thomas’ points were far from off base. “Because this isn’t about putting up a front anymore, Thomas. It isn’t about you and I arguing over how Downton is run, or what direction the future is heading in, or what our places will be in it. This is personal now.” 

Thomas closed his eyes,  _ “My entire life will be taken from me,”  _ he thought. 

“I do not want to take your life from you,” Charles whispered. “I don’t want to make you miserable. You can have a normal life still. You will simply just have to stay close to me.” 

“An’ what kind of a life would that be,” Thomas muttered. “Chained to you like some slave.” 

“You are not my slave,” Charles said. 

“You never helped me,” Thomas said. “You never looked twice my way. I was nothin’ to you. For fifteen years I was nothin’ to you but trash-” 

“Then prove me wrong,” Charles begged. “Prove everyone wrong and show us all that you are not trash. That you are a kind, and good person. Help me. Please, Thomas.” He wondered if Thomas could hear the pain in his voice. 

_ “You wouldn’t lift a finger for me if our roles were reversed,”  _ Thomas thought. 

“I would do the same for you,” Charles said. “I would not want you to suffer in the way that I am suffering daily. I would wish this on no one.” 

_ “No, why have me be a sentinel if you can humiliate me in public for things I can’t change, instead,”  _ Thomas thought, rolling his eyes. 

“Fine,” Thomas all but spat out the word, setting down his clipboard with a sharp snap upon the top of a crate of apples. He glared at Charles, his blue eyes blazing. “But I want my privacy. Just because I’m your guide, or whatever, I don’t have to stay strapped to your leg. An’ if I want to go out for a drink, I get to go out. You’re not m’da, givin’ me a bloomin’ curfew. I’m thirty five years old, and I want respect.” 

“I accept that,” Charles said in a rush, amazed to find Thomas agreeing. By god, this just might work! “I accept your terms, but I need your help at Downton. So from now on, you shadow me. Every minute of the day. And at night, if you want to go out for a drink or have privacy in your own room, that’s more than your right. Agreed?” 

Thomas ground his jaw shut, teeth grinding. Carson could hear the noise of his molars clenched together, a soft dull ache. 

**  
  
  
**

“Agreed,” Thomas growled. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an attempt to make his life a little easier, Charles tries to get to know Thomas better.   
> It doesn't go well.

The concept of Thomas Barrow moving into his home might have once sparked a wave of horror. Now, however, Charles sat in his leather armchair waiting on tenterhooks for Thomas to arrive. Anything to stop his blasted headache-! 

It had been occurring for days now, only stemmed by the presence of Thomas, and as it stood his current malaise was slowly beginning to wane. If Charles were focused enough, he could feel the tingling sensations of earth beneath his feet and a wind past his face. He wondered if this was actually Thomas, walking down the lane to his house. 

“How’s your headache?” Elsie asked. As she spoke, she flitted about the house, dusting off the tops of spotless counters or straightening the edges of doily lace. She always liked to leave a good impression when company came to visit. 

“Better,” Charles said, still rubbing gingerly at his temple. “He must be close.” 

“It’ll be nice having you back in tip top shape!” Elsie said with a smile. “Though I can tell you, I imagine our home won’t be as peaceful from now on.” She paused, musing on the subject with care. “You’ll just have to remember what my mother always said. Flies come to honey, not vinegar.” 

“I’m vinegar?” Charles asked, affronted. “What about him?” He rose from his armchair, peeking out the front window only to spot nothing on the lane. Where was that blasted boy? 

“Charles.” Elsie put her hands on her hips, standing before him much like his own mother used to when she was in a chastising mood. Charles winced, shrinking within himself. “You cannot control the actions of another man, but you can control yourself. Be polite, as I know you to be, eh?” 

Charles let out a pitiful sigh, sinking back into his leather chair. 

“I wish there was some other way,” Charles muttered. 

“Well there’s not,” Elsie said. “So that’s that.” 

As if beckoned by her final words, Charles bristled as his senses warned him of impending arrival. He could hear the crunch of feet upon the gravel outside. He could smell the pomade his Thomas’ hair, and the cigarette smoke from his walk. 

Not even a second later, a gentle knock came at their front door. 

Charles rose from his chair, fiddling nervously with his cuffs as Elsie opened the door to reveal Thomas. He was in a blue pinstripe day suit, and carrying two worn leather valises. He looked just as nervous as Charles felt, his exhausted blue eyes staring all about the house. 

With each inch that he took in, Thomas’ expression filled more with wonder. 

“Thomas,” Elsie stepped politely aside to allow him entry. “Welcome home.” 

Thomas entered cautiously, as if he expected a tiger to leap out from behind the door and maul him. When no tiger appeared, Thomas instead sat down his valises to stare about at the homely living room and the sitting parlor. He wondered at the table with a pot of fresh flowers on it, at the wireless where the slightest sound of jazz could be heard at low volume. He noted the fireplace and the couch, taking in all the details like he’d been bidden to memorize the room. 

_ “Oh, it’s lovely,”  _ Thomas thought with wonder. Charles was oddly touched. 

“Do you like it?” Elsie asked. 

“It’s beautiful, Mrs. Hughes,” Thomas said. “Did you do all this?” 

_ “She has fantastic taste,”  _ Thomas thought. 

“Some of it was already done when we arrived,” Elsie admitted, gesturing to the fireplace. “But we’ve made it right cozy between the pair of us.” 

Thomas noted in particular the green sofa that sat across from Charles’ leather armchair. “That’s the old sofa from the attic, innit’?” 

“His Lordship was kind enough to let us have it,” Elsie explained. 

Thomas then glanced at Charles, only to quickly look away.  _ “Lucky them,”  _ he thought glumly.  _ “Bet I’d never get a sofa. But she deserves more than some old furniture.”  _

“Will you show me which room is mine?” Thomas asked, picking back up his valises. 

“Well, we have two that you can pick from,” Elsie took the lead, showing Thomas to the far corner of the room where the kitchen sat next to a staircase. Up she went, with Thomas right behind her and Charles following at the end. They reached the top, which boasted little more than a cramped hallway divided into several rooms. 

“There’s one on this side of the hall,” Elsie gestured to the right. “And the opposite,” She noted to the left. “This one is Mr. Carson and I’s bedroom,” She touched the door at the far left hand of the hall. Across from them was the water closet. 

Then, quite suddenly, something odd happened. Despite feeling apprehensive about Thomas living in his house, Charles felt a sensation of protectiveness and authority loom within him. He wanted to be the one to choose Thomas’ room, and he wanted the boy close. With that in mind, Charles gestured to the door next to his own. “I want you to take this one,” Charles said. “You’ll be closer instead of across the hall.” 

Thomas looked heavily uncomfortable. “I don’t want to share a wall, it would be improper.” 

_ “I don’t want to hear you two having sex,”  _ Thomas thought irritably.  _ “Talk about nauseas.”  _

Charles would not be put off. “You are my guide, and it is your duty to be close to me at all times. You’ll take this one.” He even went so far as to open the door so that Thomas and Elsie could look inside. 

Slightly subdued, Thomas acquiesced. 

The bedroom was about as large as Thomas’ had been in the abbey attics. It boasted little more than a bed, a night stand, and a chest of drawers. But this wasn’t too uncommon; after all, this had been little more than an unused guest room before now. 

“It’s a nice room,” Elsie tried for optimism and kindness, stepping around the two men to open the window on the far side. “And it has a lovely view out onto the garden, see?” 

Indeed, she was quite right, although the window also boasted a fire escape that could take you either to the roof or to the ground if you so chose. 

_ “It’s nice for a jail cell,”  _ Thomas thought, gloomily. He slowly put down his valises upon the bed, sitting next to them so that he might begin undoing the leather clasps and straps. 

When neither Elsie nor Charles made to leave, Thomas added, “May I please have some privacy for a moment?” 

“Of course,” Elsie at once, but not before pulling the lacy curtains back so that sunlight could stream into the room. “Mr. Carson-?” she paused at the door, noting that he was not following. 

“Just a moment, actually.” Charles said. Elsie shrugged, leaving to return downstairs. 

That odd, possessive nature within him was starting to blossom once more. 

“What did you bring?” Charles asked. 

“...My things,” Thomas muttered. He’d still not opened the valises. 

“All of them?” Charles asked. 

“Yes?” Thomas was growing more and more confused. 

“Well then, you ought to set up your room,” Charles gestured to the bedside table. 

“I’d… rather do it alone?” Thomas said tentatively. 

_ “Why is he acting so strangely,”  _ Thomas wondered.  _ “We’re in the same house now, why can’t that be enough for him?”  _

Knowing that he was acting a fool, Charles decided to change the subject. “Tomorrow I’m going to announce to the staff that I am a sentinel and you are my guide. I want you to stand beside me when I do.” 

Thomas’ shoulders sagged under the enormous weight of responsibility. “Can we not?” He groaned, opening one of his valises to reveal a smattering of hand me-down books. Thomas began to pull them out, organizing them in his lap. “I’d rather avoid giving Mr. Bates more things to tease me over.” 

_ “The berk,”  _ Thomas thought irritably. 

“This is bigger than your childish squabbles with Mr. Bates,” Charles warned. “Stand beside me and be my guide.” 

“S’not like I have a choice,” Thomas muttered, eyes down. 

“No, it’s not,” Charles agreed. When Thomas did not reply, Charles decided that it was perhaps best to leave him on his own. Thomas was a solitary creature after all. Yet even as he left, he heard Thomas think:  _ “This is hell.”  _

He closed the door behind him, wondering if he’d made the right choice or not. 

~*~

That night, Charles slept better than he had in nearly a month. Instead of flitting through a dull headache, Charles fell instantly to sleep and stayed that way all through the night. In his dreams, he saw odd flitting colors of sky blue and gray, perhaps remnants of cigarette smoke. He knew instinctively that Thomas was close, and the proximity put him at ease. 

When he awoke the next morning, it was to the sound of his alarm clock. Charles shut it off as quickly as he could, not wanting to wake his wife or his guest. It was habitual at this point that Charles should wake early, so the hour of four o’clock was met with a smile. In the far off fields of green and lush England, a bird was beginning to wake with song. It made for pleasant company as Charles tip-toed around his bedroom, fetching products for his morning toilet. Elsie was still fast asleep, her graying hair in a tangled mess upon her pillow. He ought to wake her, but instead decided to let her sleep a little longer. 

He padded down the hall, pausing carefully at Thomas’ new bedroom door. Moving slowly so as not to make the floorboards creak, Charles turned the doorknob and opened it just a hair to see into the room beyond. Thomas was curled up like a mouse in bed, his covers in a tangle about his feet. Charles could see nothing of the lad save for a tuft of black hair at the top, and pearly pink at the bottom where his toes stuck out. 

He shut the door, and continued on into the bathroom. 

He was quick with his routine, after a lifetime in service where speed was essential. He bathed, shaved, brushed his teeth, and wrapped a towel about his waist to return to his bedroom. He was pleasantly surprised to find Elsie awake, yawning and pulling on her bathrobe. She smiled at the sight of him. 

**  
  
**

“Morning pet,” Charles gave her a gentle kiss on the lips. She drew back with a soft look in her eyes. If he’d been a younger man, and not on his way to work, he’d have been tempted to make love to her. 

“Is Thomas up yet?” She asked in a whisper. 

“Not yet,” Charles said. 

“I’ll go wake him-” Elsie patted him lovingly upon the breast, stroking his bare collar. She stepped around him, heading down the hall in her bathrobe. She opened the door to Thomas’ room, and vanished from sight. 

Charles began to dress, pulling off his towel to cast it aside in a hamper; as he dressed, his ears were perked to the noise next door: 

_ “Thomas, it’s time to get up.”  _

A shifting of box springs, as if someone were rolling upon their bed. 

_ “Oh… it’s so early.”  _

_ “We have to walk to the house, now. We can’t just go downstairs.”  _

_ “Oh bugger. I forgot about that.”  _

_ “Come on now, up you get.”  _

A sigh, and more creaking of box springs. 

_ “Ah- don’t you roll over. Up. Sit up.”  _

_ “Yes, mum,”  _ an irritable scowl, followed by a heavy sniff. 

_ “If only you were so lucky,”  _ Elsie replied. 

**  
  
**

Elsie soon returned, only to take a short bath and begin dressing. Charles headed downstairs, ready to set off, and awaited the arrival of his two companions. It was the first morning since becoming a sentinel that his head did not hurt, and his good mood was positively infectious. He felt as if all things were possible; as if for the first time his sentinel status was not a curse but a blessing. With Thomas living in the house, he now had a solution that fit his problem. Normalcy would return, he was certain. 

About fifteen minutes later, both Elsie and Thomas arrived downstairs one after the other. Thomas already had on his livery; Elsie wore her blue overcoat over her own starched black dress. 

Thomas was bleary eyed, close to running into walls. He gave an impressive yawn, blinked owlishly at Carson, then spotted fruit sitting at a table basket upon the kitchen counter. 

_ “Food,”  _ Thomas thought longingly. 

Thinking to offer goodwill, Charles took up an apple from the basket and tossed it to thomas. But instead of snatching it out of the air and thanking him, Thomas was so sleepy and so unprepared that the apple hit him straight in the eye and fell to the floor with a ‘thunk’. 

“Ow!” Thomas yelped in alarm. 

“Charlie!” Elsie was shocked at his rudeness. 

“I- I’m sorry!” Charles spluttered, now realizing just how odd that must have looked. All normal and fine till he started throwing fruit at people who were hardly awake. “I thought he would be hungry!” 

“You bruised it,” Thomas complained, bending over to fetch the apple off the floor. He dusted it, checking it on all sides where, sure enough, a large bruise was beginning to appear. 

“Wake up, sleepy head,” Charles flushed in embarrassment. “There’s work to be done.” 

Thomas just glared at Charles before pocketing the apple and heading for the door.  _ “Hits me in the face with an apple and it’s not even dawn, what an absolute dick.”  _

“I’m sorry!” Charles complained, following at the back of the group. “Honestly, it was an accident.” 

_ “Moron,”  _ Thomas thought irritably. In public, he merely said, “S’fine, Mr. Carson.” 

**  
  
  
**

The walk to Downton took only about half an hour, and was the same as usual save that now two had become three. Thomas was younger and more spry, so he could walk faster and therefore took the lead in their group. He ate the apple that Charles had offered him, though he had to take careful bites around the bruise that had formed when it had been dropped. By the time he was finished, they were passing through a farmer’s field full of sheep in need of sheering. Thomas gave way and chucked the apple as hard as he could at the sheep. One managed to snag it off the ground, though three more were keen for a bite. Sucking a bit of apple juice from his fingers, Thomas seemed quite at peace with the world. 

Charles reflected to himself that he liked Thomas best this way, untroubled and untouched. 

Downton Abbey was still and dark upon their arrival. The area yard was vacant, with the tiniest mist upon the ground; Elsie was the one to unlock the area door, and let both Charles and Thomas in. 

“Hoo hoo!” Elsie called out, fiddling with her keys to take them from the lock. She unlocked the pantry as she walked down the hall, leaving them hanging there in case Mrs. Patmore wanted something. 

“AH-!” Mrs. Patmore called from the kitchen. Charles and Elsie walked in, with Thomas brushing past to head to his own work. He began to start on the daily ledger, head bowed before the enormous yellowed pages. 

“Good morning, a cuppa for you,” Mrs. Patmore offered both Charles and Elsie a cup of coffee with cream and sugar. 

“That’s mighty nice of you,” Elsie said with a warm smile. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Carson-” Daisy was fast at work preparing kettles while Gertie the lone scullery maid worked on the kitchen fires. 

“Good morning, Daisy,” both Elsie and Charles spoke at the same time. Daisy did not even look up from her work, too busy to smile. 

“I sent the hall boys to collect the shoes they polished last night,” Mrs. Patmore said. “So the family should be ready for their day.” 

“Very good,” Elsie praised. Charles drifted away from the kitchen, entering the servant’s hall to watch Thomas write. He looked utterly miserable in that moment. 

_ “One more day,”  _ Thomas was thinking to himself. It was a whisper, a sad and pointed thing.  _ “Just one more day… always one more day, Thomas.”  _

It suddenly dawned on Charles just how sad Thomas was, with no one else the wiser. His depression truly was an awful thing. 

**  
  
  
**

All that morning, Charles watched Thomas, noting that he was tense at breakfast as if expecting the worst. Ideally, Charles would like to get the whole charade over with and admit the truth to the staff. At the same time, however, Charles felt disloyal to not tell Lord Grantham first. In a way, he almost sought counsel from the man. These were difficult times, and if Charles did not tread carefully, he could end up in hot water with his guide. It had been one thing to argue with Thomas when he’d been nothing more than a member of staff. To argue with his guide would mean mental disarray, and that was one thing that Charles could not afford to have. 

So, in an effort to keep the peace, Charles let breakfast come and go without mentioning anything to the staff. 

As soon as the servant’s breakfast was over, a flurry of bell ringing sounded the family to waking hours. Suddenly it was all dresses and trousers, while Charles oversaw the laying of breakfast. Normally, this was something that Charles could do alone, but now Thomas was hovering at his elbow, setting up the buffet table and quietly aligning forks and knives upon their linen napkins. 

The family entered one after another, speaking gayly of the future and completely unaware that their servants were in turmoil. Every so often, Charles would slowly glance at Thomas to note that he was stock still and blank faced. This was as Charles had taught him to be; he’d expect nothing less of the lad. But the unerring silence in Thomas’ mind did not do Charles any favors. 

After breakfast, Charles allowed Thomas a slight reprieve to oversee Andrew and Molesley polishing silverware for dinner that evening. This gave him the perfect opportunity to speak with Lord Grantham alone, which he desperately wanted to do before the evening hour. 

Lady Grantham had gone to the hospital to oversee some staffing arrangements with Dr. Clarkson, and Lady Mary was out taking calls. Tom Branson had gone to the village and thus left Lord Grantham by himself in the library writing letters to old friends from the army. Charles found his master at his desk, head bent over creamy stationary stamped with the Grantham crest. 

Carson coughed to note his presence; Lord Grantham looked over his shoulder. 

“Carson!” Lord Grantham gave him a cheery smile from his writing desk. “How are things?” 

“That is what I wish to speak to you about, M’lord,” Charles said. “I’ve discovered something rather shocking-” He noted that Lord Grantham paused mid-letter, looking up from his writing warily. “And while I acted without speaking to you first because it involved my own person, I now feel that I need to tell you before I tell anyone else.” 

Lord Grantham’s eyes narrowed,” Now you’re making me nervous. You’re not ill, are you?” 

“No per say, M’lord,” Carson said. “Forgive my impertinence but I must ask, have you ever heard of sentinels?” 

“I have,” Lord Grantham set his pen aside, fingers drumming gently upon his desktop. “I’ve actually known a sentinel in my life, though they are exceedingly rare in society. Why do you ask?” 

“In lieu of the electrocution that I and Mr. Barrow suffered a few weeks ago, a bodily change came over me that disturbed me and made me seek out Dr. Clarkson’s advice. He performed some tests and discovered that I have been awakened to my abilities as a sentinel.” 

Lord Grantham was visibly taken aback, even going so far as to rise from his ancient leather chair. “My god…” the man hardly seemed able to believe it. “Are you certain?” 

“I am, M’lord,” Charles said. “And what is more… Thomas is my guide.” 

Now Lord Grantham looked deeply disturbed. For a moment, the man said nothing, thinking to himself. Then, he looked back to Charles, “Does he know this?” 

“He does, M’lord,” Charles said with a frown, “And he’s not happy about it.” 

“No, I should imagine not,” Lord Grantham mused. He re-took his seat, now deep in thought. “Carson, this is a very difficult thing. Sentinels nearly always are in relationships with their guides. They have to be to maintain their sanity.” 

“Well, I have moved Thomas to my cottage with Mrs. Hughes, M’lord,” Carson said. “That has helped my pain significantly.” 

“I should imagine it would, but-” Lord Grantham made a string of noises, hands turning pointlessly in mid-air as if he hoped to pull a solution out of the clouds. “Are you certain he is your guide?” 

“I am, M’lord.” 

“How?” 

Charles looked over his shoulder to note that the door to the library remained closed. They were alone; he took advantage of that, stepping forward so that the pair of them could speak almost intimately. 

“I shall tell you something that I have not told anyone else,” Charles said. “Not even Mrs. Hughes. I tell you only with the knowledge that you shall not reveal it to another.” 

Lord Grantham leaned in, listening eagerly. “On my grave,” Lord Grantham gave his word of honor. 

“I can hear Thomas’ thoughts,” Charles said. “I can sense him coming and going so intimately that I can tell you where he is at this very moment.” 

“Where?” Lord Grantham was almost child-like in his wonder. Charles allowed his senses to roam, like the wires of a telegraph machine stretching out over the wandering hills of England. He searched for Thomas mentally and found him in the music room, sitting by the windowside and allowing a gentle breeze to come into the room. 

“He’s in the music room,” Charles said with disdain,” Sitting by the window and not working. Honestly, lazing about-” He sighed, returning to Lord Grantham who was gazing up at him with awe. 

“Astounding,” Lord Grantham said, before sitting back in his chair. “You know, Carson, it’s not uncommon where guides and sentinels are concerned. After all, Thomas’ mind is now sort of a haven for your own.” 

“I am going to tell the staff tonight, M’lord, with your blessing. I won’t tell them about the ability to hear his thoughts. I won’t tell anyone that, frankly. It feels too intimate.” 

“Well it is intimate!” Lord Grantham agreed. “So keep it like the treasure it is.” 

Charles didn’t quite know if he would call his connection with Thomas a ‘treasure’ but took it under consideration all the same. 

“He’ll simply have to stay close to you, Carson,” Lord Grantham advised. “There’s no other way forward with it. I know you’re not exactly chummy with Thomas, but from now on, I urge you to be compassionate with him. Try to understand him better! It’ll keep you from slipping yourself into a zone out.” 

“I agree, M’lord,” Charles would rather be shot in the face than go through all that hell again. “But how?” 

“Well…” Lord Grantham waffled a bit, eyes cast upward to the carved ceiling. “Take some time off and go to a tea shop with him. Maybe take a walk around the lake? Learn more about him and tell him more about yourself. You might be surprised how much you have in common.” 

Charles grimaced at the idea. One on one time with Thomas…? Hardly an enticing concept. 

“I doubt it, M’lord,” Charles muttered, “But if you say so-” 

“I do, Carson.” Lord Grantham retook his seat at his desk and resumed his stationary. “I really do.” 

**  
  
**

~*~

The rest of the day past soundly enough, though Charles did have to give Thomas bollocking for not overseeing Andrew and Molesley with the silver. Thomas was displeased, having reckoned that two senior members of staff could go about their business without his constant presence. As a result, by the time that dinner rolled around Thomas was in a slightly sour mood and keeping to himself. Mrs. Patmore had made a steak and ale pie for everyone to share, which was quickly devoured by the hungry masses. In lieu of dessert, coffee was offered with cheese and fruit. 

Charles watched his staff for a moment or two, noting that practically everyone was in attendance save for the hall boy who was collecting shoes from the upstairs hall. Even Mrs. Patmore was sitting at the table, her cap off and her orange curls gleaming in the brass lamplight. 

Thomas was reading his book of poetry, eyes lowered to the pages and mind calm. Charles knew that Thomas wasn’t actually reading however because he couldn’t hear Thomas going over the words mentally. 

He was nervous, waiting. 

So perhaps, now was the time to get things over with. 

“If I may have everyone’s attention?” Charles asked. Heads popped up all down the table, from Anna to Gertie the scullery maid. “I have something of importance to discuss.” 

Charles did not have to wait long. He commanded total and utter respect at his table, and everyone became quiet at his command. 

“I have spoken with his Lordship,” Charles said, “And he has agreed that it is time for me to inform you of a change within my person that will affect me for the rest of my life.” 

“... A change, Mr. Carson?” Anna was utterly confused. 

_ “Oh here we fucking go,”  _ Thomas thought in despair. On the outside, however, he kept an unnervingly straight face and said nothing. 

“Allow me to explain,” Charles said. Next to him, Elsie waited patiently, giving him a small if tender smile of understanding. She, of course, already knew. 

“As I’m sure everyone will easily recall, several weeks ago an electrocution occurred which impacted both myself and Mr. Barrow. It resulted in a change within me that has now set into motion circumstances I was unprepared for.” He glanced at Elsie, who nodded in agreement. 

“By ‘eck!” Mrs. Patmore panicked, her normally ruddy face going ashen. “Don’t tell us that you’re dying!” 

“I am not dying, Mrs. Patmore,” Charles grumbled, “If you will kindly keep from putting me in an early grave.” 

Down at the far end of the table, Charles was almost certain that he heard Andrew mutter  _ “Early?”  _ to Gertie. 

“Dr. Clarkson has informed me that I have become a sentinel,” Charles said. 

But instead of a wave of shock and awe, there was just silence. Everyone looked rather confused. 

“What’s that?” Andrew asked nervously. Everyone at the table wore quizzical expressions, save for Thomas and Elsie. 

“I dunno what it is either,” Mrs. Patmore said. 

“Is it catching?” Bates asked, glancing to Anna who sat with a heavily pregnant belly. “Is Anna safe?” 

“Anna is perfectly safe,” Charles said at once. 

_ “Jesus Christ,”  _ Thomas thought irritably,  _ “I am the only person at this fucking table who reads.”  _

“A sentinel is a person whose five senses are heightened beyond that of a normal human. Sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch… A sentinel can perceive that which is invisible to the human eye. They are rare, but not unheard of. His Lordship has met one before myself. And the abilities of a sentinel can be awakened in a normal person in lieu of a disaster such as the one that occurred here.” 

“Blimey…” Mrs. Patmore wondered. 

A few staff swapped looks, still confused but generally accepting. 

“But does that mean you’re a superhuman now?” Anna asked. “Like some sort of hero in a myth?” 

_ “Oh goody, what shall we call him? How about Carson the Carbuncle.”  _ Thomas thought irritably. Charles wished he could smack the boy around the head for such an insult. 

“No Anna, I am not superhuman,” Charles said. “As it stands, being a sentinel is hardly a blessing. My heightened senses push me to the extremes and weakens my mind considerably. The only way that I am balanced is through my guide.” 

“A guide?” Anna asked. 

“Each sentinel has a balance in their guide,” Charles explained. “Which is encompassed in another human being. This person must remain physically close to their sentinel at all times to keep the sentinel sane and healthy. It’s all here, in a book Dr. Clarkson gave me-” At this, Charles withdrew the volume from his inner coat pocket, and offered it to the table at large. Anna took it, with both Bates and Mrs. Patmore peering over her separate shoulders. As they read, they grew more alarmed. 

“Is this for real?” Andrew asked, “This isn’t some kind of trick or joke?” 

“It’s true,” Elsie said. “I was made aware of it myself only a few days ago. Dr. Clarkson will confirm everything.” 

“But-!” Mrs. Patmore picked up the book from Anna’s hands, holding it better to the light. “It says here without a guide a sentinel is doomed to die a horrible death!” She looked at Charles agog. 

“We’ve got to find your guide! An’ fast too if you don’t want to start babbling like a lunatic!” Mrs. Patmore cried out. 

_ “Jesus now they’re all going to join in,”  _ Thomas thought irritably. 

“Where do we start?” Bates asked in a rush. 

“Christ, the world’s our oyster at this point-” Andy complained. 

“Should we take out an advert in the papers?” Baxter asked. 

“We could put up posters in our village too,” Anna said. 

“Now- now-!” Charles raised his hands and his voice, urging the others to silence. Soon enough, the hubble and bubble fell away into quiet. 

“While I appreciate your concern,” Charles spoke gently, in an attempt to calm the masses. “I assure you that I already know who my guide is. Dr. Clarkson helped me to decipher it.” 

“Then who are they?” Bates demanded. “We have to get them here and now, before you keel over. They can’t be apart from you.” 

“My guide is already here, Mr. Bates,” Charles said. 

Bates was taken aback, temporarily silent as he swapped a glance of confusion with his wife. 

“I don’t understand,” Bates said. 

Charles looked from Anna to Mrs. Patmore, to Daisy and Andrew at the far end of the table. To Bates who still looked wary. To Elsie, who was behind him all the way. 

“.... My guide is Thomas,” Charles said. “Thomas Barrow.” 

Bates looked ready to keel over in shock. Whispers broke out up and down the table, everyone shocked at the reveal. 

_ “Eyes down, say nothing,”  _ Thomas was frigid in his composure, not meeting anyone’s eyes.  _ “Say absolutely nothing, keep your fat mouth shut.”  _

In lieu of the unnerving silence that had fallen over the hall, Charles decided to take up the reigns again. 

“Mr. Barrow has been good enough to move into my cottage with Mrs. Hughes and myself. In future, we will be working much more closely to one another, and I would appreciate everyone’s cooperation.” 

“But-” Daisy blurted out from the end of the table, “Wait a mo’, Mr. Carson, I read about sentinel’s in my studies!” She didn’t look too happy about it either. 

“You have?” Anna asked, curious. 

“I have!” Daisy agreed. “An’ sentinel’s an guides aren’t just workmates or friends. They’re always lovers, like star crossed ones. Romeo and Juliet were a sentinel and guide after all.” 

“That’ll frighten the horses,” Bates muttered under his breath. 

“But surely they don’t have to be,” Baxter urged. 

“Well, not usually-” Daisy pondered it all with a finger upon her pointed chin. “but they often end up bein’ so. It’s what happens because a sentinel has to rely so much upon their guide. Guides can get drained y’know. They have to be able to fill back up emotionally or they’ll become useless to their sentinel.” 

_ “Oh goody,”  _ Thomas thought bitterly.  _ “Another way for me to be a failure to Carson.”  _

Charles was taken aback. Did Thomas think himself a failure? But why-? 

“Well, Thomas being useless won’t be a new experience.” Bates muttered. 

A sudden static filled Charles’ ears, so loud and vicious that he winced. At the same time, Thomas rose from his seat, causing his chair to nearly fall backward. He was furious, his expression like thunder! 

“Thomas-” Charles rose up too, trying to stop what would surely be a tumultuous fight. 

**  
  
**

But Thomas wasn’t fighting Bates; instead, he was leaving. Thomas headed for the hall to the area yard, storming off in such a huff that Charles hardly knew what to say. 

“Where are you going?” Charles demanded. “You have not been dismissed! You still have duties to attend to!” 

“Oh really?!” Thomas whirled on the spot, furious with Charles. “Well I guess it’s just another moment of me being useless. It’s not new, or so I’m told!” He then continued off for the area yard. 

“Thomas-!” Charles hurried after him down the hall. 

“I will not be your prisoner!” Thomas snatched his coat and hat from the pegs on the wall. 

“Prisoner-?!” Charles spluttered. What an insult! “You’re not a prisoner!” 

“Oh really?!” Thomas spoke with such impertinence that if he’d still been a footman, Charles would have fired him. “Then what am I? Something you can use and throw away when you’re finished, just as Daisy says? You’re very good at that where I’m concerned, aren’t you!” 

At this, Thomas headed for the door, yanking it open to let in a gust of cool air. 

“Thomas-!” But he was gone, running off with such haste that Charles couldn’t possibly catch him in his age. With every step that Thomas took in anger, a dull throb in Charles’ head began to grow. 

“Damn,” Charles hissed underneath his breath. “Damn, damn, damn…” He closed the door to the area yard, and returned with weary feat to the servant’s hall. He found the staff waiting expectantly. 

Charles retook his seat, and took a shaky sip of water with trembling hands. 

“Is he gone?” Elsie asked. Charles nodded shortly. 

“How unlike him to be so selfish,” Bates quipped. 

“We have to go after him!” Anna declared, all but rising from her chair. “He can’t just leave you like this! Even for him, this is low.” 

“He won’t appreciate being charged down,” Baxter warned her. “And you can’t go after him in any sense. You’re much too fragile right now.” 

“I’m not made of glass, Ms. Baxter,” Anna said. 

“Typical of him though, isn’t it,” Bates wondered, crossing his arms over his chest. “God only knows what’ll happen now.” 

“Nothing ungenerous,” Anna said. 

“Hard not to be with him.” 

“Quiet,” Charles snapped. His head gave a particularly violent throb. 

The table fell silent, with even Bates looking quite awkward. 

Charles sighed, shuddered in pain, and spoke with clipped short tones: 

“Thomas is my guide,” Charles spoke through gritted teeth. “He is now my responsibility in life. He is my property to care for. I will handle him, and all further situations involving him. It’s not up for mockery at this table, or any table at which I sit!” At this, Charles pointed with his finger to the servant’s table. 

No one made to challenge him on the subject. 

~*~ 

Walking home that night with Elsie, Charles felt bone tired. His headache was beginning to return, throbbing at the base of his neck and making him wish for a sedative. By the time he returned home, all that Charles knew to do was collapse in to his armchair and beg his wife for a beechams. 

Elsie was as good as gold, fetching him not only a powder but also a wet cloth for his brow. Charles lay as still as possible, trying to relax himself while all the while wishing he could chastise Bates. 

Why had Bates thought to say such a thing? Was it only clear to Charles that Thomas was sensitive on the subject of failure? And the more that Charles thought about it, the more he realized just how precarious of a situation Thomas was in mentally. He’d gone from being unattached to being practically chained to Charles’ side. What about his dreams and wants? What about his own mental refuge? How could Charles provide for him as a guide when he kept muddling everything up? 

“Blasted Bates…” Charles whispered under his breath. “Why did he have to go and say that? Now my head is aching.” 

“It’s not entirely his fault,” Elsie spoke in a soothing whisper, tracing patterns upon his brow. He could smell the gentle salt in her sweat, and the sweetness of tea upon her breath. “He’s had a history with Thomas, you can’t ignore that anymore.” 

_ A splash of water. A cold dark echoing silence.  _

“I suppose I am his jailer,” Charles said. 

“You are not,” Elsie said. “You need his help and he’ll simply have to learn his place. That is that.” 

“His lordship thinks we ought to have some alone time to bond.” 

“Oh heavens,” Elsie feigned a laugh. “That’ll give me nightmares.” 

“Do you think it so awful?” Charles cracked open a bleary eye to look up at his wife. Elsie just smiled down at him, shaking her head. 

“No, silly,” She teased. “I was just being facetious. It’ll be fine, and I personally think it’ll do you good to learn more about one another.” 

“But…” Charles closed his eyes again, resettling himself upon Elsie’s lap. “What shall we do? It’ll feel so awkward.” 

“Why not have a picnic?” Elsie offered. “The fields are flourishing and there’s a pleasant river nearby.” 

But the word ‘river’ sparked a sudden image in Charles’ mind. As if he were staring at the picture screen of a nickelodeon, Charles suddenly had the vivid image of Thomas swimming naked in a lake. 

_ His body twisting beneath the cold icy water, reeds and fish flitting about his elegant limbs. His skin was as pale as the moonlight which shone down upon him. His inky black hair floated about his face, making him look rather haunting like a mermaid.  _

Charles sat up, his ice pack falling from his head. 

Elsie stared at him, slightly alarmed. 

“Charles?” She asked. 

Though Charles had no physical proof, he was absolutely certain of where Thomas was. The old miller’s pond, not half a mile from the house. Now, it lay abandoned beside a crumbling water mill. He knew implicitly that Thomas was there, that he was swimming. 

“Stay here,” Charles said, turning for the door to leave. 

“Where are you going?” Elsie asked, rising after him to fetch him his coat. “It’s too late to walk about.” 

“I think I know where Thomas is-” Charles took his coat from her, slowly shrugging it on. “I can… see it almost.” He tapped at his temple. “Like a nickelodeon in my mind.” 

“What do you see?” She asked in wonder. 

“The abandoned miller’s pond,” Charles said. “Thomas is swimming there. At least, I see him swimming. The moonlight is reflecting on his skin beneath the water.” 

“Well-” Elsie was rather shocked by that, but she plucked up a torch from beneath their side cabinet which offered drinks to guests. “Take a torch. It’s too dark to walk without a light.” 

So Charles took it, gave Elsie a gentle peck on the cheek, and stepped out into the night. 

**  
  
**

It was a cold and dark evening, with only a sliver of the moon in the sky. Without the torch, Charles would have gotten utterly lost in the woods, but he knew the way to the miller’s pond from his youth. When Charles had been young, the pond had been in working order and he’d often gone swimming there with lads from school. But the mill had gone dry in ‘73, and as a result the pond had been abandoned. Now, fifty years later, it was nothing more than a place for fishing and ducks. 

When Charles reached the rim of the woods, he turned off his torch to keep from having Thomas spot him. At first, Charles’ eyes had to adjust to the dark, and he couldn't rightly see. But soon enough, the moonlight gave him a view that rather took him aback. 

Thomas was sitting at the edge of the miller’s abandoned dock, completely naked with his clothes folded in a pile at his side. 

**  
  
**

It was wrong and utterly improper, but Charles couldn’t help staring. 

He’d not seen a naked man since he’d been twenty years old and living in London. Back then, it had been one of the stage hands, a spry and lithe thing with wavy blonde hair and a beautiful smile. Charles had been unable to resist him, and when he'd approached Charles’ bedside stark naked, Charles had likewise been unable to turn him away. He hadn’t been Charles’ first love, but he’d been his first man, and it had been a shocking experience. 

Thomas didn’t look like his childhood escapade. Where Charles’ lover had been stocky and muscled, Thomas was thin and tall. His limbs were sublime and pale, without a trace of body hair upon his chest or arms. From his position, Charles could not see Thomas’ loins, but he could see his backside. He looked rather feminine from behind, but he lacked that distinct curve that all women had. 

He was humming to himself, completely lost in his own little world. 

Charles walked out of the woods, still refusing to turn on his torch. As he approached Thomas from behind, he let out the slightest cough to denote his presence. 

Thomas froze mid-hum, every muscle in his body stiffening. 

_ “Oh god-”  _ Thomas thought in terror. He looked over his shoulder, eyes wide with fear, only to see Charles standing there like an idiot. 

Thomas gaped, absolutely gobsmacked to find Charles staring at him. Suddenly, Charles realized just how personal this all was, with Thomas stark naked and dripping in pond water. 

“I-” Charles spluttered even as Thomas snatched his clothes from the dock to cover his loins. “I mean you no harm, I just-” 

_ “Fucking perverted old man-!”  _ Thomas thought in terror. He ran, without even saying a word to Charles in reply. He was gone in a flash, leaving behind only a pocket of air and a set of rather muddy footprints which lead into the dark woods. 

Charles groaned, dragging a hand over his face. 

Oh, honestly. How foolish could he have been? 

**  
  
**

~*~ 

Returning home sans Thomas had been rather like admitting defeat, but Elsie had put him to bed with a smile and a laugh, positively mirthful at the idea of Thomas running naked through the woods. Charles had been too tuckered to even kiss her goodnight, and had gone to sleep with the faint echo of her putting the house to rights. When he awoke the next morning, it was four thirty and time was pressing for him to get up and get dressed. Elsie had seemed slightly put out, admitting that Thomas had gone ahead of them to the house. 

Dejected and exhausted, Charles had stumbled through his morning toilet and allowed Elsie to lead him to work. She held his hand, trying to pepper his spirits with gentle kisses and talk of birdsong. 

He’d been such a blithering idiot to approach Thomas when he’d been stark naked. Why hadn’t he turned on the torchlight? Why hadn’t he announced his presence further back when Thomas could easily cover himself and not feel so exposed? He’d been such a pervert, hiding in the bushes and staring at Thomas naked. 

Honestly, who on earth would do such a thing? 

**  
  
**

They arrived at the abbey ten minutes later than usual, and as a result their morning tea was slightly cooler than it ought to be. Thomas, Mrs. Patmore claimed, was upstairs fixing the clocks. Her expression left nothing to suggestion: he was in a foul mood. 

Careful not to do anymore damage, Charles went about his work and let Thomas have the space he needed. 

**  
  
**

His chance for redemption came after tea time, after Charles headed down to the wine cellar to fetch a cabernet sauvignon for dinner. It would have to be decanted before being served, which was always a soothing sport. But as Charles passed by the boot room, he noted the slanted shadow of Thomas sitting at the bench looking at his reflection in the tin top of some boot cream. 

He was touching his hair, trying to pull it back into a fashionable side-part. 

_ “Always with lake water,”  _ Thomas primped in the mirror, thinking to himself.  _ “Exhausting. I wish I had the hair of my youth.”  _

Charles coughed to get Thomas’ attention. Thomas froze, saw Charles’ reflection in the mirror, and dropped his hand at once to return his attention to polishing shoes at the workbench. He looked rather murderous. 

How to go about saying hello when all he really wanted to do was say ‘I’m sorry’? 

**  
  
**

“I was improper last night, and I apologize,” Charles said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. It was dark and I couldn’t truly see you until it was too late.” 

Thomas said nothing, eyes narrowed.  _ “Pervert,”  _ Thomas thought irritably. Clearly he didn’t believe him, which was just as well since Charles had been lying. 

“His Lordship has a request,” Charles said in lieu of the silence. “.... I have a request.” 

Thomas bristled, straightening up. Though he did not meet Charles’ eyes, Charles knew Thomas was listening. “Yes, Mr. Carson.” 

_ “Let me guess,”  _ Thomas thought angrily,  _ “Now you have to blood let me for your morning cereal.”  _

“This union between us-” Charles gestured at the air, “It might be shocking but it’s not unnatural. And I think in order for us to truly ...” 

But he knew that talking like this wasn’t going to reach Thomas. Thomas needed to hear him speak, honestly and intimately. To know that Charles wasn’t just blowing hot air. That he meant the things he said. As his guide, Thomas deserved that. 

“... I just want to know you better,” Charles said. 

But Thomas was not impressed. He returned to scrubbing shoes. “No you don’t.” Thomas said. 

_ “What a liar,”  _ Thomas thought. 

“I do,” Charles urged. 

_ “My unnatural world, vile and foul,”  _ Thomas’ brain was beginning to fill with awful static, always a warning sign that he was getting emotional. Eager to cut it off, Charles spoke afresh. 

“I once said that your world was vile and unnatural,” Charles said. Thomas paused mid-stroke of polish to shoe, listening intently. “But I was wrong. I want you to show me differently. I want to learn more about you, and know who you are.” 

For a moment there was only silence. Then, with cautious hands, Thomas began to idly play with the tin top of the shoe cream. “... Why.” he asked. 

“Well, guides need to be cared for by their sentinels,” Charles said. “Just as sentinels need to be cared for by their guides. How can I ask the impossible of you if I cannot do the same in return? That’s hardly fair, is it? You ground me, give me a sense of calm and clarity… but what do I give to you?” 

Thomas stopped fiddling with the top. 

_ “Am I dreaming?”  _ Thomas wondered. He looked up at Charles, slightly apprehensive.  _ “Is he really saying this to me?”  _

“And... “ Thomas drummed his fingers. “If you don’t like my world?” 

“I will learn,” Charles urged. “You will teach me.” 

And for the first time in their bizarre relationship, Thomas Barrow actually smiled a little. 

Just a little. 

~*~

Picnicking with Thomas Barrow wasn’t nearly as awful as Charles had imagined it would be. Mrs. Patmore had been good enough to make them a basket of some leftovers from the family’s tea, with small sandwiches, cut apples, summer sausage, olives, and even some brie. They’d taken an old blanket from the stables, and set out shortly after tea time while the sun was beginning to sink in the sky. The weather was sublime and a gentle wind stirred the treetops every so often. Had he been with Elsie, Charles would have felt completely at ease. Thomas, however, was tense and quiet. When Charles offered him the chance to lead the way, Thomas had decided to take them back to the very same lake where Charles had found him two nights before. 

In the daytime, the miller’s pond looked rather dangerous. It needed to be dredged and cleaned, but neither would happen until the property was bought by a new farmer. Spreading their blanket out on the grass by the dock, Thomas and Charles allowed themselves to relax before tempting conversation. 

Honestly, it all fell on Charles’ shoulders. Thomas was clammed up and nervous, unwilling to talk for more than a few words at a time. It was like trying to get a wild horse to come to your hand. 

**  
  
**

“How did you come to find this lake?” Charles asked. 

“I walk the woods a lot,” Thomas explained, looking back over his shoulder to the heavy overgrowth. “Just sort of stumbled on it, really. I like exploring things.” 

Thomas then thought,  _ “This is so awkward. It’s like that time Elizabeth Henlom kissed me in primary school.”  _

Eager to keep the conversation going, Charles tried the most broad if boring of questions: “Will you tell me about yourself?” 

“Not much to tell.” 

This was like pulling hen’s teeth! “I doubt that very much,” Charles said. “Where are you from?” 

“Stockport,” Thomas said. Charles knew of it, a small town not far from Liverpool. “I told you that in my interview all those years ago. I suppose you forgot.” 

It was funny now, to remember the very first time Charles had clapped eyes on Thomas. He’d been young, only twenty, and had brought so much attention with him that Mrs. Hughes had later had to reprimand the maids. With skin like porcelain, straight teeth, and eyes the color of a sea after a storm, Thomas had been a model specimen. He’d certainly impressed Charles with his skills as a footman. Unlike many, Thomas’ hands were clearly made for intense labor, and when he’d polished silver he’d do so with such gusto that his fingers had nearly bled on the cloth. 

“I did,” Charles admitted. He honestly couldn’t remember what they’d spoken on. No doubt the questions has all been stereotypical and shallow. “I suppose my mind is slipping.” 

“Can I get that in writing?” Thomas teased. 

“Never.” Charles was amazed to find that he was almost smiling at the man. Smiling at Thomas, who would have ever thought! 

“I’m from here,” Charles said. “I was born and raised in the village. In the house, even. Tell me about your family.” He paused to take a swig of elderberry wine; a gift from Mrs. Patmore. 

But then, something very strange happened. 

Light lightening, an image burst into bloom vividly before Charles’ eyes only to fade again just as quickly. In those mere seconds, he was given a glimpse of people he’d never met before. Of a man with a severe hooked nose and a murderous expression. Of a woman in rags, sitting upon an upturned wash tub and sobbing into her hands. Of an enormous grandfather clock from the perspective of a small child, ancient and ornate with gilded hands. Of a street in winter, with starry skies overhead and heavy white snowfall underfoot. 

“I’ve forgotten,” Thomas said. But just as quickly, he thought,  _ “I will never forget.”  _

Once again, Charles was struck by the image of a woman he did not know. She was beautiful, with black hair in a messy bun and an easter egg blue dress over which a dirty apron was wrapped. She seemed to him to be glowing in a rosy light, as if she were angelic. 

And in that moment, Charles knew that Thomas was thinking of his mother. That the woman Charles was seeing was perhaps the only person in Thomas’ childhood who had loved him, and that the beautiful light in which she was shown was a symbol of her mercy and compassion. Of the love that she’d born for her son. 

Humbled, Charles tried for a more sensitive approach, understanding that the topic might simply be too harsh for Thomas to dwell on without assurity. 

“My father was a stern man,” Charles mused. How funny it was, to be nearing his seventies and to remember his own father glaring at him from across the servant’s table. He’d had a fine white beard, so thick and full that during December village children would think him Father Christmas at a quick glance. 

“He was a groomsman to the prior Lord Grantham,” Charles explained. “Back in those days, horses were the pride of the house. I remember them, a line of white steeds. When they marched, it was like a cloud moving across the ground. My mother was head housemaid,” Charles paused, smiling at the memory of his own mother. 

She’d been so warm and compassionate, her curly hair always falling on her face despite the many pins that she’d worn. 

“I suppose that’s why I’ve always been gentler with Anna,” Charles admitted. “In those days, a woman’s skirts were much longer. I can remember being very small and hiding beneath them-” 

He’d surely been no more than two or three, sitting at his mother’s feet while she worked at the servant’s table. He’d been clinging to her ankle, content to pretend that he was in a circus tent instead of his mother’s crinoline. 

“I grew up in that hall,” Charles said. He noted that Thomas was listening with rapt attention. Clearly he had a way with words. “I’ve known it since I was born. Perhaps that’s why I’m so attached.” 

Charles offered Thomas a sip of the elderberry wine, but Thomas refused, looking away back out over the lake. 

Charles decided to try again. “You told me once that your father was a clockmaker,” Charles said. “I suppose you grew up in a clock shop then?” 

Thomas said nothing. Internally, however, a war was raging. Charles could hear voices, none of whom he recognized. A strange garbled melody of a man shouting and a woman begging. Of whispers in the dark and crying from afar. The static was growing in Thomas’ brain. 

“Will you tell me?” Charles murmured, his voice gentle. “Just a little bit?” 

Thomas did not look at Charles as he spoke. “I understand clocks. They’re living things, in their own way.” Yet the sentence did not truly end there. Charles was suddenly transported mentally to the scene of a darkened bedroom with moonlight streaming through moth eaten curtains. A tiny boy lay upon a sunken bed, while his mother sat perched at his side in a dusky rose bathrobe. Her beautiful black hair fell in waves over her left shoulder, creating a wall of gloom that one might hide behind to forget about the world. 

_ “He is a doctor, Tommy,” The woman’s voice was melodious and sweet, loving as she caressed the little boy’s brow. He was close to sleep, eyes sagging closed. “He is fixing what is broken. They’re little people and they’re hurt.”  _

_ “What about us?” Tommy whispered.  _

_ “We must fend for ourselves,” His mother replied with sage authority. “We can protect ourselves, Thomas. Clocks cannot.”  _

The scene vanished in Charles’ mind, returning him to the present where a fully grown Thomas sat next to him, completely unaware that Charles had just seen an image of his youth. Of his mother. 

“... That sounds like something a mother would say,” Charles said. Thomas bristled next to him. “Mothers are always wiser than fathers. Your mother must have been beautiful too. I certainly know that mine was to me.” 

“... I’ve forgotten.” Thomas whispered. 

_ “I will never forget,”  _ he thought bitterly.  _ “Till the day I die.”  _

Charles could see her so easily now, when Thomas was melancholy. In Thomas’ memory, she was forever enshrined at the kitchen sink, washing dishes with a rag full of holes and humming methodically. In the light and in full, Charles could tell that Thomas looked incredibly like her. 

“It must have been hard to leave her behind,” Charles said. “It was hard when I left Downton to travel to London, but I felt so invigorated, so freed. I chose to leave my home behind. I have to wonder if you were the same.” 

The static popped in Charles’ ears, and was so loud that he winced. Thomas revealed nothing in his expression, but his mind was at war. Too many images were flashing past Charles’ eyes, of places he’d never seen draped in filth and depravity. A maze of back alleys, under bridges, and crypts with broken padlocks. Of men with yellowed teeth and crazed eyes. 

He suddenly realized that something truly terrible must have happened to Thomas in his childhood, to make him so angry at the world. 

“You were strong to endure it,” Charles praised him. “To find sanctuary. The world can be unkind to a child on their own.” 

“The world has always been unkind to me,” Thomas said. 

“Are you so certain?” Charles asked. He re-situated himself a little upon their blanket, watching Thomas’ guarded expression closely for any betrayal of emotion. “After all, your mother was a part of your world, no matter how temporary-” 

“I don’t want to speak on her,” Thomas said. There was an ugly tension, hiding just beneath the surface. A pain so deep and so raw that Charles could barely stand to look at it for longer than a second. 

He had to wonder what it was like. To love someone so deeply and to lose them. He wondered if it would be the same, should he lose Elsie. 

“... Because you love her?” Charles murmured. 

_ “Yes,”  _ Thomas thought. 

It was unfair to ask this much of Thomas, even if they were in private. It was too much too soon. They had all the time in the world. 

“Why don’t we try a change of subject?” Charles offered. 

“Let’s,” Thomas replied in clipped tones. 

“I ought to get to know you better, and you me,” Charles said. “So why don’t you ask me anything you like.” 

Thomas narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Charles with a sharp gaze.  _ “Do you masterbate, I wonder?”  _ Thomas thought. 

Charles flushed, nearly spluttering aloud. Thomas’ lips quirked into a wary smile. “Thinking of taking it back?” Thomas teased. 

“Do your worst,” Charles grumbled. 

But instead of asking him about his sexual habits, Thomas asked something else (thank god). “Why leave the theatre?” Thomas asked. “Rumor mill says you liked it. That you were right good at it. Why give it up for Downton?” 

That was a fair question, though god only knows what kind of awful rumors were spinning about Charles’ time on stage. The last thing he wanted was for someone to ask him for an encore! 

“I had to earn for my mother,” Charles explained. “In the place of my father, you see. There was an accident with the steeds, and his leg was never the same. He was growing old and he needed both help and rest.” 

“So do you ever miss it?” Thomas asked. “Performing?” 

“No, I do not,” Charles said, for thought it had been quite a gas, it had also been exhausting. Charles knew that at his current age and mentality, he would never be able to endure the strain. “It was too much for me, even in my youth. It takes a lot out of you, to be a performer.” 

Thomas chuckled, but did not reply. 

“A turn for a turn?” Charles asked. 

_ “Oh god,”  _ Thomas thought in despair. Charles noted there was fear in Thomas’ eyes. But he didn’t have to be afraid of Charles. Charles didn’t want to hurt him. He just wanted to know a little more. To understand. 

“... What was her name?” Charles asked, for if he could know anything about Thomas, he wanted it to be in regards to his mother. The woman who had clearly inspired such grief, pain, and love. 

Thomas said nothing. Charles waited, listening as hard as he could for the strings of emotion inside Thomas’ mind. They played, a tiny croaking tune of loss and sorrow, and spelled out a name for Charles to hear. 

_ Alice,  _ they seemed to say. 

Still, Thomas said nothing. 

“Can I guess?” Charles murmured. Thomas nodded, though it was barely a jerk of the head. 

Charles waited a moment, then two, and finally said, “Alice.” 

Thomas stiffened, jerking to glare at Charles. He could see the fear and mistrust in the man’s eyes. “How did you guess that?” Thomas asked. “Is that some sentinel thing?” 

“... A bit,” Charles was afraid to reveal the full truth. “I can sense that you loved her deeply. That she loved you-” Thomas looked away, no longer willing to face Charles. 

“That maybe, the pain of it is so intense you cannot-” but Thomas stood up from the blanket, cutting Charles off. Charles stared up at him, shocked to find that Thomas was trembling slightly. 

The static was hissing in Thomas’ mind, always a danger sign. 

“I can’t.” Thomas said. 

Charles did not interrupt him. Whatever was happening, it was so fragile and delicate that one gust of wind could blow it away; he realized that for the first time in twenty years, he was seeing Thomas’ true personality. 

His pain. His love. His deep ability to feel and to hurt. 

“I can’t,” He turned to look down at Charles. His blue eyes were like stone, as if mentally he’d already shut down. “Do you understand? I had to leave it behind. I had to shut the door. It was not my choice, but it was my fate. It’s the way things are. It does nothing for me, to remember it. It only hurts… and I don’t want to hurt more than I have to.” 

Charles could tell he already had to hurt a lot. “I apologize,” Charles said, and he truly meant it. “I will not bring it up again.” 

“... Thank you.” Thomas replied. It was an automated phrase, one with no emotion behind it. The static was rolling like a rapid in Thomas’ brain. The wound had been disturbed; the nerve had been pressed. 

Something odd had happened to their little rendezvous. It had grown too serious, too fast. 

Thomas stepped off the blanket, slowly heading in the direction of the woods. 

“Where are you going?” Charles called out. 

Thomas raised a hand, gesturing aimlessly into the wilderness of England. 

All things considered, he probably needed time to be alone. 

**  
  
**

~*~

After the picnic, things got much better. To ask a fish to climb a tree was fruitless, and so to ask Thomas to be cheery all the time was likewise a foolish notion. But instead of being all smiles like Anna or all pep like Daisy, Thomas started to show Charles a side he’d never before seen. Thomas was mischievous, that he’d always known, but he was also incredibly gentle when the time called for it and undying curiosity about the world. Whenever Charles gave Thomas a moment to catch his breath, the boy had his long nose stuck in a book. It didn’t matter whether it was a weather report for the upcoming month, or a historical account of the wars. Thomas wanted to know about it. 

Charles could appreciate that. 

Thomas had this beautiful respect for the world that Charles had seldom seen in another individual save for Lady Sybil (god rest her treasured soul). By being made an outcast from birth for something he could not change, Thomas had been forced to accept that there were some things beyond his reach. That didn’t mean he stopped looking at them though, with his eyes craned up to the sky. He wanted to know why he’d been born different. He wanted to know why couldn’t be normal. He wanted to shake his fist at god, and count the sins he could find amongst other men who got away with living in society while being odd. 

In retrospect, Charles wondered if it was this fire which had dwindled to ash during Thomas’ suicide attempt. After all… one could only be angry for so long before you ran out of heat. 

About a week after their picnic, Charles checked his yearly calendar only to realize that he was overdue for filing and sorting. He decided to let Thomas observe this process, if only for the pleasure of the boy’s company. In the evening hours, however, Thomas had very little desire to file. Instead, he wanted to read; Charles wouldn’t let him and so Thomas was slightly cross. 

With all the filing cabinets opened, Charles and Thomas gazed upon centuries worth of paperwork together. 

“How far back does this go?” Thomas wondered, thumbing through files crumbling with age. 

“At least to 1820,” Charles said. 

“Delightful,” Thomas certainly didn’t sound delighted. He let out an exaggerated sigh, as if this were the crime of the century to impede upon his time. Thomas blew gently upon the pages, scattering a slight film of dust. He was clearly disgusted. 

“These are the rocks and foundation of Downton Abbey,” Charles preached. He noticed Thomas rolling his eyes, clearly unfazed by his rhetorics. “We must preserve them for the sake of our future. Many of these people had no record of their existence outside of this house. Without these papers, they will be lost to the sands of time, completely erased-” 

“Mr. Carson…” Thomas spoke in a chiding tone, which gave Charles pause. 

“Yes?” He replied. 

“I get the point,” Thomas said. Charles knew better than to push. 

It was an exhaustive but pleasurable, and gave Charles a sense of deep satisfaction to wipe away layer upon layer of dust. Thomas was just as efficient at sorting files as he was cleaning silver. He had a way of putting his nose to the grindstone and getting solutions which endeared him to Charles. They sorted an entire cabinet, then another, and by the time they were on their third it was close to one in the morning. Thomas was getting sleepy; a sense of beautiful peace had washed over Charles but it wasn’t his own. He was intimately aware that he was inside Thomas’ mind. 

He liked being there. 

In a way, he wanted to stay there. 

In the very last cabinet, they approached the modern age. Now they were looking at files that frankly weren’t Thomas’ business. It was slightly surreal to see his own file at the front; Charles pulled it out and passed it over to Thomas who laid it on the desk. In the act of passing it over, the weight of the file caused a few pieces of paper to slip out onto the floor. One of them was a waxed photograph, which landed face down near Thomas’ foot. 

Thomas bent over to pick up the photograph, turning it over and wiping off a film of dust to reveal, of all things, a picture of Charles in his twenties. The year had been 1872, as dated by the time stamp in the corner. Charles was shocked at how young he was, how fit and whole. It was like he was looking into the face of a ghost from his past. 

He supposed he was, all things considered. 

“Was this you?” Thomas spoke in utter amazement, elegant fingers tracing over Charles’ profile. 

“Yes, it was,” Charles said with pride. 

Out loud, Thomas said nothing. Internally, however, his mind was abuzz. 

_ “Wow…”  _ Charles merely half-listened while continuing to sort, until- .  _ “He was so handsome. Gosh, don’t you want to kiss those lips.”  _

Charles froze, slowly looking up at Thomas. 

Thomas was still staring down at Charles’ photograph, a slight smile upon his ruby lips. He was almost entranced. 

Charles had never considered such a thing before, that he might be the sort of man Thomas would look to for affection. In his youth, he’d been rather zealous. 

_ No,  _ he chided himself.  _ You must not think of such things.  _

Now, more than ever, with Thomas before him and staring at a picture of his prime… Charles could not reawaken those yearnings. Those sinful recollections of his youth in London when he’d been young and whole. 

Because if he was perfectly honest with himself… 

_ No,  _ he thought again. 

And yet-? 

“... Am I up to snuff?” Charles just had to know. He had to ask. 

“What?” Thomas looked up; he hadn’t been paying attention, too entranced with the photo. “I’m sorry Mr. Carson, I didn’t hear what you asked.” 

“Only that you’re making a rather close study of me.” Charles said. “I suppose I wondered if I was… to your liking.” 

Silence fell. 

Thomas stared and stared, his expression empty and yet livid all at the same time. 

He slowly put down Charles’ photograph upon the desk, still silent. 

Then, he made a terse little hiss of a noise, sort of a laugh but only in the barest of regards. 

“Excuse me.” Thomas did not even make to hide his contempt, storming out of the office to leave Charles both bewildered and terribly embarrassed. 

**  
  
  
**

_ “Absolutely unbelievable!”  _ He heard Thomas think in a rage. 


	5. Tight Spiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles attempts to make things better with Thomas, and ends up buggering it completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for **attempted sexual assault**

Many times in the past, Thomas Barrow had sat silent and smoldering at the table while the other servants had eaten their fill. Charles had often watched the lad and wondered what he had been thinking. It had been a comical notion, back then, nothing too worrisome to contend with. 

Now, however, Charles’ head was positively aching with the yowls and snarls of Thomas’ inner thoughts. 

_ “To have the sodding nerve to speak to me about what I find attractive, when he despises men like me!”  _ Thomas kept his eyes solidly focused on his breakfast in front of him, but there was a murderous gleam about him that put Charles on edge.  _ “The balls on that man. It’s a miracle he can pull his trousers up over them.”  _

The entirety of breakfast, Charles wanted to beg Thomas to shuttup, but how could he when doing so would instantly give up the ghost? So he kept his lips pursed and his eyes on his porridge, desperately trying to avoid Thomas’ bitter glare. 

Serving the family was no easier, for despite Thomas keeping the perfect servant’s blank the boy’s mind was still bouncing with anger. 

_ “Honestly, it doesn’t matter how attractive he was in his youth-”  _ Thomas’ inner monologue was so completely at odds with his serving the family that Charles almost lost focus on holding his position by the buffet.  _ “He’s still a stiff prude who damns me for what I cannot change. That’s the facts of the matter. So what if his lips were kissable. The words that pour out of them are pure acid.”  _

Feet away, the Crawely’s dined on sandwiches and tea, completely unaware that Thomas Barrow was considering his lips kissable. 

The hour of lunch came and went, and Thomas was still refusing to talk to anyone out loud. 

_ “I’m his guide, not his therapist!”  _ Thomas took a bite out of his sandwich, and though he had the paper before him it was obvious that he wasn’t actually reading. He had a strange glazed look in his eyes.  _ “If he wants to talk about such things, he should do so with Mrs. Hughes. His wife.”  _

Thomas let out a terse sigh, taking a sip of juice.  _ “Honestly straight men are such idiots. How do they keep breeding? Why do women lower their standards for them? Mrs. Hughes could do so much better.”  _

Next to Charles, Elsie sat eating her own corn beef sandwich, completely unaware that her marriage was up for dispute in the inner machinations of Thomas’ mind. 

You’d think that after six straight hours of snarling, Thomas would have begun to think of something else. Unfortunately for Charles, however, it seemed that Thomas was entranced by the subject of his person. It was now growing on the evening, and Thomas stood sorting the silver alongside Charles after serving the family their dinner. Every piece would have to be catalogued back into the inventory lest it be up for theft from the errant hall boy. 

_ “Was I to your liking… ugh!”  _ Thomas was tense, his back to Charles as he continued to work on the inventory. Charles was practically walking on eggshells, carefully pulling out piece after piece of silver that needed to be cleaned.  _ “Even the words sound so full of himself. Like he automatically expected me to say yes. I have standards- well-”  _

Thomas cocked his head, deep in thought. 

_ “Sort of. Jimmy was such a heartthrob, I could choke. He had an arse you could bounce a coin off of.”  _

Now Charles couldn’t help but stared, shocked at Thomas’ inner thoughts. It just kept going and going! Bouncing coins, of all things-! 

_ “God… I haven’t been to Tuprins in so long-”  _ And suddenly a flurry of lewd images swirled past Charles’ eyes. The glimpses were dark, but solid, revealing a world he’d not known since his youth in the theatre. Naked men laying together, their bodies moving with a beautiful fluidity. 

_ “Well, I’m going tonight,”  _ Thomas thought, returning to his work with newfound determination.  _ “It’s settled. I’m tired of being Carson’s unwilling life vest. I’ll go to Turpins, and find me a real man to romance. Maybe Christopher will be there again.”  _ At this, Charles was suddenly slammed with the image of a thin man with a pencil thin mustache and chestnut hair. He had a predatory look about him, and it set Charles’ nerves on edge. Who was this Christopher that Thomas was so taken by? What hold did the man have over his guide? 

But Thomas was smiling, head bowed as he continued to polish a soup ladle.  _ “Maybe if I’m sweet, he’ll let me have a bit of sugar again.”  _

Quite suddenly, Charles was barraged by the erotic and wholy unexpected internal image of the same man with his trousers pooled about the ankles and his manhood in Thomas’- 

It was instinctual; Charles dropped the silver tureen that he’d been holding. It fell with an almighty clatter to the floor, with the domed top rolling comically away on its side to wobble and fall behind Charles’ desk. 

Thomas jumped at the sudden noise, seemingly amazed to find that Charles had dropped something. 

_ “What on earth?”  _ Thomas thought, glancing from Charles to the turreen’s now hidden lid. Cautious, Thomas set down the soup ladle and dropped to his knees, inching bit by bit beneath Charles’ desk to grab for the lid where it had hidden at the back. This gave a rather unexpected if not slightly flattering view of Thomas’ behind, which was firm and fit despite him being in his mid-thirties. 

_ Talk about bouncing coins,  _ Charles wondered. 

And then, something terrifying occurred. 

Instead of continuing to fetch the lid none the wiser, Thomas jerked back out and whipped around, his facial expression a mixture of horror, indignation, shock, and rage. 

“... What did you just say?” Thomas whispered, a murderous edge to his voice. 

But Charles hadn’t said anything, not out loud at least, which could only mean that Thomas had heard his thoughts. Charles had not told Thomas as of yet about the darker edge of their connection, but it seemed that the lad was starting to glean the abilities himself. Frightened, unable to defend his crude thoughts or explain the truth, Charles spluttered and hawed. 

“I-” Charles tried for ignorance, praying it would work, “I didn’t say anything-” 

“Talk about bouncing coins,” Thomas snapped. Charles went white; so it seemed that the boy  _ could  _ hear his thoughts. “I heard you say it!” Thomas cried out when Charles did not immediately make to explain. 

“I-” He stuttered through a lie. “I was talking about my clumsiness.” 

_ “How?”  _ Thomas demanded, with such a sardonic tone that it was clear he did not believe Charles in any way shape or form. 

“I-” There could be no denying it, no pretending it was a dream. So instead of lying, Charles began to beg for mercy, feeling like a child once again before his irate mother. “I didn’t mean it in a condescending way-!” 

Thomas looked ready to punch him in the lip. “It was just a slip of the-- it was a-- an accident!” Charles begged. 

“Really.” Thomas sneered. Without another word, Thomas yanked his white polishing gloves off, throwing them angrily upon the workbench and storming for the door. 

_ “Sod this,”  _ Thomas thought angrily.  _ “I’m leaving now.”  _

“Where are you going?!” Charles begged. 

“Away from you!” Thomas shouted, wrenching the door open to fume in its shadow. “Or shall I tell Mrs. Hughes what you said?!” 

The idea of Elsie finding out that Charles had perverted thoughts was enough to make his blood go cold. It was one thing to make gentle love to your wife on your wedding night; that was the proper and English thing to do. It was another thing entirely to admit to her that you were into buggery and had committed it in your youth. There were some things you simply could not talk to a woman about. 

But as if to lend insult to injury, the universe put Elsie within earshot. She came walking up the hallway, confused at the ruckus, and squeezed into Charles’ doorway past Thomas’ stiff frame. 

“Tell me what?” she asked. 

Thomas looked from Elsie to Charles; he was debating, clearly on the verge of letting everything go should the fancy take him. 

Praying it would be enough, Charles blurted out, “You can have the rest of the night off, Thomas.” 

Thomas sneered, pushing rudely past Elsie into the hallway. A minute passed, and then Charles heard the back door slam. 

Elsie watched the interaction with amazement; when they were alone, she asked. “What on earth was that about?” 

She entered his office, noted the tureen on the floor, and stooped over to pick it up. “What did you say to Thomas? He looked ready to throttle you,” She tutted as she spoke. 

“... Something that I shouldn’t have,” Charles shakily sat down in his seat, palming his forehead where a few beads of sweat were starting to appear. If Thomas could now begin to hear his thoughts, how long would he be able to keep up the charade of not hearing  _ his?  _ How would he mentally be able to handle the terrible pressure? 

It seemed impossible. 

“I’m shocked,” Elsie teased, setting the turren back in the silver cabinet. “What did you say?” She asked again. 

Charles did not answer her, his head bowed in shame. How would he ever explain himself? 

Concerned at his lack of explanation, Elsie took a tentative step forward. 

“Charlie?” she murmured. “You know you can tell me, don’t you? I’m your wife and I love you. That won’t change no matter how naughty you were with Thomas. He deserves it from time to time.” 

But no one deserved to be subject to humiliation regarding their body, and Charles felt terrible for allowing his thoughts to turn so perverted. 

Charles noticed the door was still open. “... Shut the door,” he said. 

Disturbed, Elsie did as she was bade and then returned to sit in Charles’ guest seat. Folding her hands in her lap, she waited patiently for him to explain. 

But how did one go about explaining this in the first place? What were the words to use? Who could he look to as an authority on how to speak to his wife about buggery? 

“Tell me what’s happened,” She said. “You’re as pale as a sheet.” 

“... I need to preface this by telling you something,” Charles said. “Something I’ve never told anyone else. Something  _ you  _ must never tell to anyone else.” 

“Alright,” Elsie was a good soldier in the face of battle. 

He took a shaky breath, deciding on the chronological approach. It was the only one which made any sense, at this point. 

“When I was young and in the theatre…” Charles swallowed, his throat terribly dry. “I did things I shouldn’t have. Indulged in things I shouldn’t have.” 

Elsie did not waver. “Such as?” 

“I was young and stupid…” He felt like he was blathering at this point. “I didn’t even think. I just pursued pleasure after pleasure-” 

“Charlie,” Elsie gently raised a hand to urge him to stop. “Just tell me and get it over with.” 

He looked at his wife, and found her waiting expectantly. He wondered if he would ever be able to gain back the respect he was about to lose in her eyes. 

“... Men,” Charles whispered. Elsie stared for a moment, seemingly unsure of what he’d meant. 

“I don’t understand,” she said. 

“I... “ Charles swallowed, licked his lips, then tried again. “I did things with men. Things I shouldn’t have done. Things I…” He shook his head, unable to meet her eyes any longer. 

Elsie had gone unnervingly quiet. “I stopped when I returned to Downton and I swore to never do such things again. But there was a time when I allowed sin to sway me.” 

“Charlie…” She whispered his name in awe. He did not have the courage to meet her gaze. “Are you- are you saying that you’re like… Thomas?” 

“A bit,” Charles said, for he could not deny that no matter how hard he tried. “But not entirely. I am a normal man for the most part.” How could he not be, when he loved and had shared himself intimately with his wife? 

Elsie was silent for a moment, and in those seconds, Charles feared that his wife might rebuke him and all would be lost. But instead, Elsie seemed to be summoning up memories from years long past. She looked at him quizzically, perhaps with newfound understanding. 

“Is that why you’ve been so horribly sharp with him?” Elsie asked. 

Charles just shrugged. He didn’t know if he had the mental capacity to peel back so many layers at the snap of a finger. 

“What did you say to him just now?” Elsie asked. 

“I just…” Charles could curse himself for his foolishness. “I just wasn’t thinking. He’d been sulking all day long and had bent over and under the desk to pick up the top of the tureen. He’d had his backside in the air in the most awful manner!” Charles could sense himself growing unnecessarily indignant. 

Elsie just stared like he’d grown a second head. The corners of her lips were starting to tug like she was trying to hide a laugh. 

“I- I might have mentioned something about bouncing coins-” Charles spluttered over the words. “He was being flirtatious and inappropriate-” 

But Elsie cut him off, bursting into such a vivid peal of laughter that Charles blushed with embarrassment. Now that he heard her laughing, he suddenly realized just how stupid he’d sounded. How childish and shallow. 

“Thomas, flirt with you?!” Elsie could barely speak through her mirth. “My god, you two have been cramped up for too long. Charlie-!” She admonished him, smacking him lightly upon the arm. “He doesn’t look at you like that!” 

“But he could!” Charles warned. 

“Oh as if-!” Elsie sneered. Suddenly, Charles felt rather insulted and he didn’t know why. Was it so bizarre to think that Thomas might find him attractive? 

“You’re much too old for him,” Elsie reminded him. “He’s a young gay thing- quite literally-” She added with a mutter, “and he’s looking for a man his own age! Silly man…” But she was smiling, and stroked his arm. “I assure you the only one flirting with you are people your own age. Such as me.” She paused, slightly wary. “Or did you forget me with Thomas?” 

“Don’t be silly,” Charles took her hand in his own, delicately stroking the may calluses upon her palms. “Forgetting you would be impossible… but I cannot deny that Thomas was furious.” 

“As well he should have been,” Elsie admonished him. “You’ll have to apologize, and as soon as possible. Where was he going just now?” 

“To some place named Turpins.” Charles said. 

Elsie made a noise of wonderment. “I’ve heard him mention that place once to Ms. Baxter. It’s in York. Goodness, it’ll take him an hour or so to get there.” 

Charles was filled with a newfound sense of determination. He had done a wrong, and now he must make it right (as soon as possible). If Thomas was going to Turpins in York, then Charles would simply have to follow him out there and drag him out to explain himself. Maybe, if he got up the nerve, he might even tell Thomas the truth- 

No… No, it was much too soon to admit that. 

“Elsie, can you control the house tonight?” Charles asked. “I need to put this right, and I’m starting to get a migraine from the distance with my guide.” 

He needn’t have worried. Elsie was a sturdy sailor. “Of course-” she patted him on the arm, rising up to take his coat and hat from pegs on the wall. “Go do what you have to,” She handed both to him. “Anna and I will run ship tonight.” 

“You’re a saint,” He praised, popping his hat upon his head. 

“Get changed first-!” She chastised him. “You can’t go in your spats, and Thomas won’t be getting anywhere without wheels.” 

But Charles was already out the door, feeling like a man thirty years younger as he sprinted for the back door. 

**  
  
**

Despite being in full livery, Charles was quick on the chase. It was like he’d become possessed by a version of himself that was ten years younger, flagging the family chauffeur Mr. Griggs and having the man take him to town. Thomas would have gotten a head start on foot, but if Charles was quick he could still make the train to York. The entire way to the station, Charles’ mind was running a marathon with the fact that Thomas had heard his thoughts. 

It had been one thing to indulge in the private fantasy of knowing Thomas’ inner machinations. But the idea of Thomas knowing his? It terrified him. What if he inadvertently thought something silly and Thomas heard it? How long would Charles be able to keep up the guise of not being able to hear Thomas’ thoughts, and what would the outcome be once everything was revealed? 

Would Thomas be even more traumatized, or would he be angry? 

Worst of all, would his gift turn on him and become a curse once again? 

****  
  


He arrived at the station, only to find several people waiting on the platform including Thomas who looked positively murderous. Charles hung back, hiding from the crowd behind a well placed pillar and pretending to content himself with the evening village paper while waiting for the train to York. Lucky for him, Thomas was so angry that he didn’t notice Charles standing several feet behind him. 

The train arrived about five minutes ahead of schedule, with Charles being the last to board so that he could remain hidden from Thomas. He was still working up his nerve, still trying to figure out what he might say to Thomas in the form of an apology. Should he come right out and admit the truth, or should he merely cover up the wound? Would it be better to be honest with his guide, or would it only result in an even bigger headache? 

Several seats ahead of Charles, Thomas sat leaning against the window glaring moodily out into the dusky fields of Yorkshire. 

_ “Bouncing coins,”  _ Thomas thought murderously.  _ “Son of a bitch, I ought to have struck him.”  _ He shifted in his seat, sinister anger slowly receding to a moody smugness.  _ “Still, it’s nice to know that I’m desirable. The old ball and chain… that’s me.”  _

So at the least the lad knew how to take a compliment. 

When the train docked in York, Charles found the city oddly silent and pale. A fat yellow moon was beginning to rise up over the skies of England, with the result that soft shadows were cast onto the cobblestone. In the far distance, York Minster chimed with the late hour. The ancient roman walls, which had once kept out the Gaols, now only served to hide the seedier sides of life. In their crumbling facades, Thomas slipped in and out, taking Charles underneath the ancient city and turn towards the river. Here, a Victorian era sewer had been carved out to protect the city from further decay. 

Charles paused in the shadow of an arch, watching as Thomas slipped down the hidden hallway to pause by a metal door. 

_ ‘DANGER: PUBLIC WATER WORKS. PROPERTY OF TURPIN SEWAGE COMPANY”  _ An old tin sign read. Thomas ignored it completely, and knocked on the door. One second later, an eye whole opened with a low groaning crank of metal on metal. 

Charles was too far back to hear what was being said, but Thomas’ thoughts were as clear as day to him. 

_ “New password, interesting.”  _ Thomas mused.  _ “Oscar.”  _ He then entered, leaving Charles alone in the ally. The door slammed shut again, the echo rippling down both ends of the hall. For a moment, he hung back, nervous about approaching. It had all seemed so straightforward on the train, but now? 

...No. No he had to do right. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself otherwise. He had to apologize. 

Charles walked forward, his heart pounding rather wildly in his breast. He’d not been to a den of sin since his youth, and the prospect of returning now in his sixties made him wonder if he’d temporarily lost his marbles. But a tingling sensation was beginning to return to his limbs. He wanted to see things that Thomas saw, to indulge in the darker side of life as Thomas did. He wanted to remember what it was to be wild and dangerous, to not care what society thought. 

And above all, he wanted to make peace with his guide. 

Charles knocked on the door, and was greeted by the eye hole re-appearing with a rusty groan. From beyond the barrier, a pair of scowling eyes greeted him. 

“Password?” the man beyond the door asked. 

“Oscar,” Charles said. 

The eye hole slid shut again, only to be followed by the sound of a series of locks unlatching. The door opened to reveal a portly man in a tweed purple suit, who smiled benignly at Charles. 

“Welcome back, brother,” The man said. Charles tipped his bowler hat to the man and slipped inside. 

He had to walk down a flight of old stairs, which seemed to have been carved into the very rock of England, and was then greeted by a hallway. Several young men were crowded in the doors, a few enjoying conversation and a few enjoying other activities. Charles was temporarily scandalized by the sight of a young man with curly blonde hair allowing another youth to ravage his mouth. They were like animals, panting and moaning against the stone. Did they have no shame? 

_ “I’m much too old for this place,”  _ Charles thought irritably. He stepped around the two men to enter into the open bar area. 

It was rather a lot to take in at once. A four man bad centered around an old piano kept the spirit up with jazz. In the far corner, a rather large bar built into the wall held court to several seats. Two barmen were serving up pints, wine, and even some liquor though it wasn’t much. In the middle of the room, dividing the two attractions, was a large dance floor upon with several partners were enjoying themselves. Spread about the room, clustered into groups of three or four, old rope wheels laid on their sides now served as table tops for games of pontoon and poker. 

Charles did not know whether to feel relaxed or on edge. His eyes were locked upon the far bar, where upon a stool Thomas now sat enjoying a small pint of dark beer. It looked like he was waiting for somebody, but a quick glance about the room assured Charles that the notorious Christopher was not in present company. 

He’d have to get his nerve up, and soon, if he wanted to get a chance to apologize to Thomas. But how should he do it? 

Charles sat down, nervously hiding his face behind his Downton newspaper. When a waiter passed and offered Charles a pint, Charles accepted only to blend in more with the crowd. 

From his perch he sat and waited, listening to the men at the bar as they passed Thomas by. Some looked interested. Others hardly even noticed him. 

Thomas seemed overcome with a sense of ennui. He palmed his chin, drumming his fingers upon the bartop. 

_ “Christopher, where are you?”  _ Thomas wondered.  _ “You won’t believe all that I have to say.”  _

Charles had to wonder if they were lovers. 

It made an ugly spark of jealousy flash from inside him. 

Quite suddenly, a rather drunken man stumbled up to the bar. He had that lean hungry look of a wolf, with feral eyes and a rather grizzly expression. His clothes were threadbare, a sign of his poverty, but when he fished through his pockets he pulled out several shillings in an effort to buy a glass of the most expensive whiskey the barmen had on tap. 

Clearly his priorities were askew. 

But then, the man paused mid-shot of whiskey, noticing Thomas at the far edge of the bar. 

A leering smile crossed his grizzled face; quite suddenly, Charles found himself growing terribly worried for his footman. 

The man swaggered up, setting his whiskey down next to Thomas’ half-finished pint. Thomas gave a start, blinking at the man bewilderedly. 

“Come here a lot, love?” the man asked. 

Thomas just sighed, rolling his eyes and returning to his drink. “Go away,” Thomas said. “I’m not in the mood.” 

“Is that so?” The man was hardly perturbed. “Well how do you know if you won’t give me a chance.” 

“Shoo fly, don’t bother me.” Thomas said. He took a sip of his beer, and licked the foam from his upper lip only to leave a tiny bit at the corner of his mouth. Charles’ heart skipped a beat as the man reached out and touched Thomas’ mouth with his thumb, moving away the foam. 

Thomas jerked back, nearly falling out of his chair. The man just kept grinning, as if he were the cat who’d caught the canary. 

But Thomas wasn’t impressed He glared at the man, backing away from the bar. 

“Keep your hands to yourself, you creep,” Thomas sneered. Charles watched as Thomas vanished down a long hallway near the back of the room, and wondered if he were perhaps going to use the loo. But then the grizzled man followed Thomas, that predatory look still in his eyes. Charles didn’t have to read the man’s thoughts to know what his intentions were, and at once rose from his chair to pursue the man across the room. 

The hallway, as it turned out, offered a loo but also another set of stairs which descended even lower into the stone of York. Curious, Charles took the stairs, listening intently for any conversation up ahead. The stone served as a perfect echo chamber, reverberating conversation from far up ahead as if Charles were standing upon the scene. 

“What’s your problem?!” Charles heard Thomas snap. “Back off, I told you I’m not in the mood!” 

“Well I can put you in the mood.” 

There was a sudden scuffling, and Charles’ heart began to beat faster at the sound of Thomas calling out in fear. 

“Stay back from me! What’s wrong with you, are you some kind of animal!?” 

Charles rounded the corner, nearly tripping over old pipes that had fallen to the floor. He could see light up ahead, and shadows on the stone. The sound of running water was like thunder in Charles’ ears; he rounded the corner expecting to see a waterfall only to find that instead he’d entered upon the scene of an underground sewer. A river of filth ran through the center, locked off from the public by a steep drop carved in the stone. Perhaps, in the age of the Romans, this same place might have been used for the very same purpose. Now, however, it was full of vermin with cockroaches crawling upon the stone; it made Charles want to be violently ill, his senses working double time to warn him that this was not a place for a clean man to be. 

Worst of all, Thomas and the grizzled men were now locked arm in arm, the pair of them giving chase as Thomas tried to keep the man back. 

“Stay back from me!” Thomas shouted, running only to be grabbed by the arm. 

“C’mere, I just want a taste!” The man begged. 

“No!” Thomas cried out. 

The man did not take well to being denied a pleasure he wanted. His ire sparked into full fury, and before Thomas could defend himself the man slammed him against the sewer wall. 

“Stop squirmin’, I’m not going to hurt you-” 

“SOMEONE HELP!” Thomas screamed. The terror in his voice stabbed at Charles like a knife. He’d never heard Thomas sound so frightened before, and it put an animalistic edge into him. 

Two men were fighting each other, but Thomas’ panic was putting him on the losing side. Charles had seen men fight to prove a point before, but this was somehow different and more vicious. The grizzled man was trying to unbutton Thomas’ shirt, with the result that Thomas was both pushing them man away and trying to keep his shirt buttoned at the same time. He was terrified, and Charles didn’t need to be a sentinel to know just what the grizzled man’s desires were. 

_ Leterous bastard!  _ Charles thought. A wave a sadistic self-righteousness washed over him, pushing him forward in a wave of courage. He raised his arm back, and before the grizzled man could notice that he had company Charles punched him hard in the face. 

The grizzled man fell to the floor, completely cockeyed from the punch. 

Thomas gaped at Charles, both taken aback and grateful. 

_ “How can it be?”  _ Thomas wondered in awe. But his confusion was washed under by a wave of rage; he kicked at the grizzled man, who rolled onto his side and staggered up several feet away. 

He rubbed at his swollen temple, heavily confused. 

“So your sweetheart finally shows up-” The grizzled man sneered. “What a pity.” 

“Thomas, stay back!” Charles ordered. 

But Thomas didn’t want to stay back; he wanted revenge on the man who’d nearly raped him. 

Thomas hocked back, and spat right in the man’s face, causing him to yip and yowl in fury and disgust as he scrubbed at his already filthy skin. 

“Your mental!” Thomas cursed; Charles held him back by the elbow, keeping another fight from breaking out. His knuckles were smarting horribly from the punch. “I said no! That’s a complete sentence, you bastard! What about that do you not understand? Are you so stupid that you can’t understand what ‘no’ means? Do you need to go back to school?” 

“Why are you such a fuckin’ twist?!” The man had the audacity to act as if he was the one put upon. “All I wanted was a bit of fun!” 

“Fun for who?!” Thomas demanded. 

“Well if you’d let me bugger you, you’d find out.” 

Charles saw red. 

Without thinking, Charles surged forward and with the strength of a man twenty years younger kicked the grizzled man hard in the chest. He flew backward, arching over the stone barrier that divided sewage from land, and crashed with a scream into the river of filth! Cockroaches went scattering, desperate to stay above water as the man floundered in a river of shite. 

“Disgusting!” Thomas gaped at the sight. 

“It’s what he deserves,” Charles seethed. His hands were trembling, but not from palsy. He’d never been so mad before! 

The man had scrambled from the river, but had no way of getting back up to Charles and Thomas more than twenty feet above him. instead, he clung to a thin divide of brick where rotting iron bars kept strays from entering into the sewer. 

“Learned your lesson?!” Thomas crowed from the top. “Or do you need another glass of shite to drink!?” 

But instead of being culled, the man was now much more angry. 

“Damn you!” The man howled. “All I wanted was a kiss, you little rat! You’re nothing, you know that! You’re nothing but a waste of space! No wonder only dirty old men want to kiss you! You’re nothin’ but yesterday’s news, and you look like an oily fish to boot!” 

“How dare you!” Charles cut the man off mid-tirade. “I am a sentinel and this man is my guide! If you value your life, you will never come near him again!” 

“Who cares what you are?!” The man wouldn’t be tamed. “Your still a soggy old piece of bread!” 

“I see, well shall I tell the police where to find you?” Charles demanded, “God knows they’ll certainly be able to smell you from Scotland Yard!” 

The man went pale. It was one thing to be implicated in a tussle. It was another thing to be outed as inverted. Desperate to get away, the man waded through the sewage towards a massive open pipe on the far end. Like a bug, he crawled inside and vanished into the dark, trying to put as much distance between himself and Charles as he possibly could. 

It was the smartest move that he’d made all night. 

But any type of joy that Charles might have felt at the idea of winning the battle was lost upon turning about and seeing Thomas glare at him. 

And then, quite suddenly, it occurred to Charles that Thomas might actually be quite angry at him. 

“I can explain,” Charles said. 

Unfortunately, Thomas did not give him that opportunity. 

“What are you doing in this place?!” Thomas gestured about with a wild wave. “How the hell did you find me here?!” 

“You were hardly discreet!” Charles chastised. “And frankly, I saved your life from that cad-!” the cad in question was now nowhere to be seen. “You ought to be thanking me-” 

“Discreet?!” The word was an insult as far as Thomas was concerned. “We’re in a bloomin’ sewer tunnel six feet underground!” As if to prove his point, his voice echoed several times off the curved walls so that a chorus of angry Thomas’ assaulted Charles’ delicate ears. 

“Now tell me!” Thomas ordered, “How did you find me?!” 

“I followed you, is that such a bizarre concept-?” 

“And you have no shame to boot!” But Charles couldn’t fathom where his shame was supposed to come from. “This is my night off, I’m spending it as I please-!” 

“Getting assaulted in a sewer,” Charles sneered. 

“In a nightclub for men like me!” Thomas overpowered him; for the briefest moment, Charles felt slightly guilty. It was clear that places like Turpin’s served as refuges for men like Thomas, and Charles’ intrusion into the space was not welcome. His presence hung like a foul stench in the air, which was saying something given that they were standing ten feet away from open sewage. 

But now, Thomas was getting emotional. “Why can’t you just let me be for five minutes?!” He paced back and forth; Charles’ heightened senses could help him to hear Thomas’ heart pounding in his breast. His blood seemed to be sloshing in his ears. 

“Can’t you understand that I need time to be away from you?! We’re constantly in each other’s pockets and it’s making me sick! I can’t think when you’re around!” 

“Neither can I,” Charles admitted; now that Thomas could hear his thoughts, he was terrified to let his guard drop, mentally. 

“Then why won’t you let me be?!” 

It was a fair question and it deserved a fair answer. In truth, Charles still didn’t fully understand his newfound bond with Thomas. Only that, at the very core of his being he suddenly felt imbalanced and that balance could only be restored with Thomas’ presence. It was as if he’d become a sudden heavy flare, with the result that every moth ten counties over was drawn to his presence. Hot and heavy, his only relief can from the fresh rain that fell upon him; yet as soon as that rain touched him, it sizzled and evaporated. That was how Charles felt, being around Thomas. He was all at once both relieved and doomed. Both destroyed and healed. 

“... I need you,” Charles said. 

“You need your guide,” Thomas spoke as if to correct Charles; yet it was he who did not understand. 

Suddenly, Charles was drawn to Thomas, and he took several steps forward to reach out and caress Thomas’ cheek with the meat of his palm. 

“What-?” Thomas jerked back in shock, eyes wide like a rabbit in the torch of a hunter. 

“What are you doing?” Thomas’ heart rate was beginning to pick up again.  _ “What’s going on?”  _ Thomas thought in fear.  _ “Is he drunk?”  _

“I’m not inebriated, Thomas,” Charles almost felt like chastising the boy. “I need to touch you to feel more myself.” And indeed, the more that Charles felt the smoothness of Thomas’ skin beneath his fingers, the more he felt absolutely certain that the answer to all his problems lay just inches away. 

“Well too bad-!” Thomas flustered, trying to pull back. “Get away from me, before I-!” 

A sudden possessive rage consumed Charles; the thought of Thomas denying him and pulling away from him gave rise to a terrible fear within his breast. Unable to risk the chance, Charles took Thomas by the neck and pushed him back hard till Thomas was flattened against the slimy sewer wall. Charles could not summon the strength within him to feel bad for the act. The sudden desire to control, to illuminate himself as master of the situation and of Thomas gave him a sense of pride which did not allow for guilt. 

But in Thomas’ eyes, there was nothing but fear. 

_ “I’m scared,”  _ Thomas thought. It was not so much a solid intellectual thought but an obvious feeling. 

“I’m not trying to scare you, Thomas,” Charles said. 

“You’re failing,” Thomas admitted. His words spurned slight shame in Charles, and so he pulled back if only a little to allow Thomas some breathing room. At once, Thomas took the space, pressing himself flat against the walls of the sodden sewer. 

After a moment, Thomas collected himself and asked, “What’s going on with you?” He seemed to be under the impression that the whole world was falling into chaos. 

“I confess-” But Charles did not know where to start, save the beginning. “I’m afraid you’ve awakened things that have long lay dormant within me.” 

“What things?” Thomas asked. “Your sentinel senses?” 

“No,” Charles said, for though that was slightly true, it had had more to do with the accident itself than with Thomas. 

“Then explain,” Thomas said. 

So, Charles tried. 

“When I was young and in the theatre, the world was my oyster and I dined lavishly. I thought

in retrospect that to abstain was the only way forward. To hold the strong moral line and keep

the heart of Downton Abbey beating with purity. But I forgot how strong temptation was…” Charles grew wistful, thinking of his youth when he’d been young and whole. Thomas, on the other hand, just looked incredibly confused. 

“Temptation?” He repeated the word, as if to be sure he’d heard right. “But… what’s tempting you?” 

“... You.” Charles said. Thomas was taken aback. 

“I’m tempting you?” Thomas was close to sneering with disbelief. “What do you mean? How do I tempt you?” 

“How do you not,” Charles mumbled. Youthful, whole, supple and sweet but with just a hint of raucous spice… Thomas Barrow was both sin incarnate, and a small taste of paradise. 

_ “What on earth is he gobbling about?”  _ Thomas wondered in awe.  _ “I can’t make heads or tales of this, am I going mad? I can’t be hearing right.”  _

“Thomas…” Charles drug a hand over his face in exhaustion. The late hour was beginning to wear about him. “I… I have a terrible confession to make to you.” He felt almost like he was admitting to a lie. “I am not like you, not entirely, but… in some ways…” Charles drifted off. “We are the same.” 

“I don’t understand,” Thomas said. “Tell me what you’re talking about and don’t beat around the bush anymore.” 

This was a test of his courage beyond anything Charles had ever known. 

“... I have sinned, in the way that you have sinned,” Charles said. “And you make me want to sin again.” 

Thomas blinked. Charles watched his pert pink lips flutter across the phrase “sin in the way you’ve sinned-” only to stop as a sudden hot white fuzz overtook Thomas’ mind. It sounded like radio static in Charles’ ears, and he winced at the commotion. 

“You…” The loathing in Thomas’ face was undeniable, unavoidable. “Vile… son of a bitch-” 

Charles gaped. He’d never been swore at in such a way by anyone! 

“You’re like me?!” Thomas shrieked, fingers trembling wildly as he pointed to his own chest. “You’re… you’re a homosexual?!” His voice was getting louder and higher, till it was almost painful to listen to. 

But Charles wasn’t a homosexual! Not at all, not even in the slightest-! And yet… 

Panic welled up within him as he tried to worm his way out of a hole. 

“Not entirely-” Charles flustered. 

“But you’re enough!” Thomas shouted; the venom in his voice was utterly insidious, but it was nothing compared to the shock of Thomas grabbing a loose brick from the crumbling sewer wall to hurl it at Charles’ face. Charles had a split second to duck, causing the brick to explode into a ball of powder and loose granite. To think-! Thomas had dared to attack him! 

“How dare you attack me!” Charles thundered. He did not know what insulted him more; the fact that his own footman had turned upon him as a butler, or the fact that his guide had turned upon him as a sentinel. 

“No, how dare you-!” Thomas pointed a finger right in Charles’ face, so that the tip of his hand was only an inch or so away from his hooked nose. Charles flinched at the sight. 

“You bastard!” Thomas cursed him relentlessly, “how could you speak to me of inversion when you damned me for it in the first place! You, who’ve made my life such a misery for something I couldn’t change! Something that you were too cowardly to face!” 

And quite suddenly, a terrible image bloomed into Charles’ mind. He saw himself through Thomas’ eyes, towering down with utter loathing and hatred: 

_ “Don’t you get clever with me, when you should be horsewhipped!”  _

It had been a barb, something drawn out of the heat of the moment, but it seemed that the shock of hearing such malice from Charles’ own mouth had never left Thomas. He had to wonder in that moment if, since then, Thomas had been haunted by the encounter every time they’d spoken. 

_ “If I could only just be sure-”  _ Charles had said, thinking Thomas a child molester. 

Was that not what he had feared himself? Was that not what he had striven to bury deep down within, so that he could be the moral edge to guide Downton to the future? 

Was that why he had been so hard on Thomas? Because he’d seen himself in the lad? 

“That’s not what I damned you for-” Charles began, but Thomas cut him off with a shout. 

“LIAR!” 

“I-” Charles flustered, “I didn’t curse you for that. I was angry about you kissing James in his sleep! It was a wretched thing to do-” 

“God you’re such a-” But Thomas couldn’t seem to find the words. He paced to and fro, practically clutching at his oiled black hair till it was sticking up in tufts. “I can’t believe you!” Thomas smacked himself in the forehead, as if to jar his senses. “I can’t believe that I was beginning to trust you! That I actually thought I could tell you the things inside me-” 

But Charles wanted to hear those things so very desperately, and the thought of losing them forever was petrying. In an urge to salvage what was about to be lost, Charles surged forward and cupped Thomas’ flushed face within his hands. The act was so swift and unexpected that it shocked Thomas into silence. 

“Listen to me!” Charles begged, “Please, I beg of you. Just shuttup and listen to me for one moment. I do not damn you for being inverted-” 

But being so close to Thomas after such a jarring argument was causing a head rush. Charles reeled, almost woozy on his feet; he closed his eyes, leaning in a bit so that his forehead was nearly touching Thomas’ own. He could hear Thomas’ heart pounding wildly; could feel the sweat upon his temple. 

“W-what are you doing?” Thomas was afraid. 

“I’m… grounding myself,” Charles had no other word to call it. 

_ “What is he going to do to me?” _ Thomas thought in terror, his blue eyes wide and glistening. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Charles said, “I swear.” The thought of Thomas advertently labeling him as a predator made him want to be sick. He could never harm Thomas; never, when the lad was so terribly important to him. “I could never hurt, you Thomas. You’re sacred to me.” 

_ “S-sacred?”  _ Thomas wondered. 

“Sacred…” Thomas shook his head, his chin loose in Charles’ grasp. “What are you talking about? Mr. Carson, you’re frightening me.” 

“The reason, I…” He felt like he was drunk. “The reason I had to be strong, and hold the moral line… was that you tempted me. And now, I… I cannot deny…” But he was rambling, making no sense. 

“... What?” Thomas voice was tiny, practically that of a child. For the first time in their relationship of nearly twenty years, Charles looked down into Thomas’ beautiful blue eyes and truly saw him for who he was. Fragile, unique, and twisted by the universe to bend in inconceivable ways. So unbelievably strong, and yet wholly unaware of it. He was like a wild horse stuck in a barn, staring out into the fields and wondering. 

Wondering… 

It happened so fast that Charles did not have time to process his own actions, to make sense of what he was doing. 

He leaned in, and kissed Thomas full on the mouth. 

For a moment, no matter how small or weak it might have been, Charles’ mind and soul were utterly at peace. His body felt ten years younger, like a massive load had been lifted from his shoulders. In that moment, he felt like he could do anything, be anybody-! 

_ “Oh my god-”  _ Thomas’ chin was turning in his grip, his brow grimacing.  _ “OH MY GOD-!”  _ He wrenched back once, twice, and finally succeeded in getting away from Charles’ kiss. He reared back, and before Charles could so much as defend himself Thomas slapped him hard across the face. The bite of his touch stung like the venom of a snake, and it left Charles at a loss as Thomas ran for his life back up the sewer walkway. 

“Thomas-!” Charles tried to grab Thomas’ hand, tried to pull him back and make him see-! 

“Stay away from me!” Thomas shouted. 

He did not give Charles another chance to explain himself. He ran, on legs too young for Charles to contend with, and left at such a speed that suddenly Charles was quite alone in a reeking sewer feeling like an absolute and utter fool. 


	6. Safe Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Turpins, Charles comes to terms with the real problem at the root of his relationship with Thomas, and finally tells Thomas the whole hankering truth.

If things had been in a poor state before Turpins, after Turpins was solidly disastrous. 

He should have been able to control himself, he should have been able to sit down and explain things like a rational man, but Charles Carson had lost control in the most fragile of moments and now he was paying the price. Despite the new living arrangements, Thomas was no longer returning to Charles’ house at night. Instead, he stayed at the abbey and when pressed on the subject would refuse to so much as even speak. He’d grown icy and indifferent, bringing back memories of years ago when Charles had all but loathed the sight of his first footman. It made him realize how much Thomas had changed in stark contrast. Quite suddenly, he was made to understand that the Thomas of 1926 was a gentle and loving creature compared to the Thomas of 1920. It was shocking how much a person could change in six years. 

Worst of all, life around Charles just kept spinning, giving him no time to conjure up excuses or barriers. In a turn of events that ought to have brought him great joy, Lady Edith was now to be wed to his grace, Lord Pelham. The poor child had constantly been overshadowed by Lady Mary or outdone by Lady Sybil. Now, at last, her life was falling into place and allowing her a moment of peace. But Charles couldn’t summon the energy to even enjoy a cup of tea, much less debate on the peculiars of a massive socialite event such as a marquis’ wedding. 

It was late on a Friday evening, and Charles stood before Lord Grantham attempting to look like he wasn’t dying on the inside. Lord Grantham was all smiles, delighted by his middle daughter's turn of prospects. But when Charles did not immediately return the sentiments, Lord Grantham seemed to gather that something was off. He watched Charles with care, noting how the man seemed to sway a bit on the spot. How his eyes had a puffy, listless edge to them. 

“Is it all too much, Carson?” Lord Grantham murmured. 

But it wasn’t that simple; it could never be simple again. For the first time in his life, Charles didn’t feel like he could talk to Lord Grantham about his problems. There was suddenly a divide between master and servant that had never been there before. 

“Certainly not, M’lord,” It was a lie, but a necessary one. That did not make it any easier for Charles to tell. “I shall handle it.” 

But how? 

Lord Grantham took a small sip of watered down whiskey, only to grimace at the taste; it was difficult for him to consume alcohol after his surgery, but a lifetime of fine living begged him to indulge the habit. “How are things with Thomas, if I may ask?” 

Some lies were too great to tell, “I confess, they are wretched.” Charles was somber in his defeat. 

Lord Grantham was dismayed, “I thought you were turning over a new leaf with each other?” 

“I fear I accidentally felled the tree, M’lord,” Charles said, which was odd because it was difficult to ‘accidentally’ kiss someone. Still, here they were. 

Instead of looking irritable, Lord Grantham was oddly sympathetic. He set his whiskey down, folding his hands carefully behind his back. “Start from the ground up, Carson,” he advised. “Appeal to his better nature. Take things slowly.” 

But Thomas’ better nature was what frightened him most of all. That side of himself, so heavily locked away, had come back to light with all its glaring oddities. He could no longer look at Thomas without desire. He could no longer remain faithful to Elsie alone. He had both ruined his marriage and his relationship with his guide. 

“That is what I am afraid of, M’lord.” Charles murmured. 

Unfortunately, Lord Grantham had no good advice for that. 

**  
  
  
  
  
**

It wasn’t just Lord Grantham that Charles couldn’t confide in. Elsie didn’t know the truth either. As far as she was aware, Charles had gone after Thomas only to argue with him more. Now, they were in the middle of a trench war, with everyone blindly on Charles’ side while Thomas steamed and stewed. Each member of staff, even Ms. Baxter who normally was in Thomas’ corner, seemed to view his turn of fortune as a sentinel, like it was a curse. Thomas, as a guide, was his only source of relief, so if Thomas chose to abstain then it was akin to Thomas knowingly punishing him. But things weren’t so black and white anymore. Yes, Charles was a sentinel, and yes without Thomas physically near it was difficult to keep a handle on his sense of hearing and sight, but Charles was also a human being and he ought to be held to the same standards as any man. Kissing someone who did not want you to kiss them was wrong. Flat out. It didn’t matter if Charles was a sentinel and Thomas a guide. 

What did matter was that in the past weeks, Charles had become queerly attached to Thomas. Being able to listen to his inner thoughts had made Charles almost like Thomas’ protector, and he was very possessive of Thomas’ attention and presence. He wanted to hide the boy away from the rest of the staff. He had lurid dreams of holding Thomas close late at night. Of whispering affections in his ear. It was like he was romancing his own soul in some weird way. It was nepotism at its finest, and Charles couldn’t be more ashamed. 

The day after speaking to Lord Grantham, Charle wandered the lower halls of Downton in a malaise. Thomas had been bidden to teach Andrew and Peter how to adeptly polish crystal. This was to be an important skill for both boys to learn given Lady Edith’s upcoming wedding. There would be balls, dinners, and parades… guests would be coming from all over to visit. Each event would require crystal, and polishing would have to happen before and after a guest had touched the goblet. 

It felt like a perverted attempt at sneaking, but Charles found himself skulking outside the door to the butler’s pantry. Here, everything from the silver cabinet to the more rare Crawley gems were locked up under Charles’ steady eye. 

Thomas stood with his back to the door, a long table laid before him full of crystal goblets. There were some for white and red wine, whiskey and ports, for champagne, and for sherry. Peter hung to his left, Andrew to his right, and both boys watched avidly as Thomas polished glass after glass with speed. 

**  
  
**

“Remember,” Thomas said wisely, “The key to keeping the glasswear free of smudges is to be mindful of the lemon juice. Always tape up any cuts that you have on your fingers or it will hurt horribly.” 

“How do you do it so fast?” Peter asked in wonder. Thomas’ fingers flew over the crystal glass, buffering away any residue that had been left by the former. 

“Well, I’ve been at it for a long time,” But Thomas had a distant expression upon his face, and Charles could sense that he was not truly with Peter and Andrew in that moment. 

A flash hit Charles’ mind, of the pair of them kissing in the sewers beneath Turpins. 

But it was gone just as quickly as it had come, and once again Thomas was back to polishing. 

Burdened, Charles turned away from the scene and carried on down the hall. He did not want to look at Thomas if he could help it. The temptation was already too great for him to stand. 

~*~ 

Things did not get easier as the week progressed. Monday came and brought along with it terrible blustering winds. Snow was on the horizon, thought it was yet to fall, and as a result everyone was feeling the sting of the chill. Extra fires were lit on all floors, and hot mugs of tea and coffee were constantly being passed around. Maid after maid was coming down with the sniffles, and Charles couldn’t go outside without feeling like someone was whipping him with an olive branch for the sting of the wind. 

To make matters worse, Lady Grantham had called for a meeting. Elsie, Mrs. Patmore, Charles, and even Thomas were asked to appear upstairs in the library so that they might discuss the particulars of the beginning preparations for Lady Edith’s wedding. Charles wanted nothing more than to duck his head into the wine cellar and scream until he lost consciousness, but went upstairs nonetheless and forced his facial expression into that of a benign calm. 

Sitting a chair away from his guide, Charles thought it a miracle he did not spontaneously combust. He could smell the sweet pomade in Thomas’ hairline. His eyes could practically zero in on his slight adams apple, or the deep waves of dark blue at the inside of his irises. Worst of all, Thomas’ mind was an open book, whispers running through the air and tugging at Charles’ consciousness. 

He ought to be taking notes. He ought to be asking questions. He ought to stop salivating over a man thirty years younger than him and get his act together… but the day was not looking promising. 

“I know we’ve been led up the garden path before,” Lady Grantham began with dismay. Elsie cut her off with a gentle wave of the hand. 

“Let’s not rake over all that horribleness now. Lord Pelham is a man of better character,” Elsie said. Lady Grantham smiled, grateful for Elsie’s support. 

Thomas wasn’t paying attention; Charles could read his mind like a book, by this point, but for whatever reason Thomas seemed to be thinking about Charles carrying Miss Sybie when she’d been small. Why, he wondered? 

“Still, I fear that Lady Edith will want her wedding to shine as bright as Lady Marys did, but

it’s not 1920 anymore and we just don’t have the budget for it,” Lady Grantham admitted. Elsie opened up her leather bound notebook, pen poised to take notes. 

Now Thomas was thinking of Charles’ wedding to Elsie (perhaps inspired by the topic of conversation). 

“Well, if it’s not too impertinent to ask-” Elsie began, but Lady Grantham answered her question with speed. 

“I know what you’re going to ask Mrs. Hughes, and we’re in good hands,” Lady Grantham assured her. “We may not have much of a budget alone, but Lord Pelham has been gracious enough to lend some of his own money for the wedding. Five thousand pounds, to be exact.” 

“Oh!” Elsie was taken aback with delight at the sum. It would do very nicely indeed! 

“Oh that’s very reasonable, M’lady,” Mrs. Patmore agreed, nodding her head fervently. 

“More than enough-” Elsie added, now scribbling away at her notebook. “So in sum, we have?” 

“Six thousand.” Lady Grantham said. 

“Fantastic,” Elsie murmured to herself. She was already making lists of things to buy and mend. 

But Charles was having a hard time concentrating. He suddenly found himself thinking of Thomas when he’d been swimming in the lake by the abandoned mill farmer’s pond. 

And then, quite suddenly, it happened again. 

Thomas gave a start, going pale; it was clear that he’d not been thinking of anything, and then had suddenly been hit by the image of himself swimming. He looked down, his hands trembling, then rose unexpectedly from his seat so that all conversation suddenly ceased. 

“May I be excused, M’lady?” Thomas asked. “I confess I don’t feel well.” 

“Certainly,” Lady Grantham said, watching him go with wary eyes. when Thomas had closed the library door behind him, she turned at once to Elsie. “Did you see how white he turned? That was most odd.” 

“He was never a tan man, M’lady,” Mrs. Patmore chuckled. 

“Maybe it’s the change in the weather,” Elsie mused, for it was indeed starting to turn cold and rumors of illness were floating about the village. 

Suddenly, Charles had the desire to chase after Thomas. To make sure that he was alright and perhaps try to make peace with him. 

“I should go and make sure he’s alright, M’lady,” Charles said, but Lady Grantham reached out and waved him back to his seat. 

“He’ll be fine on his own, Carson, and I confess that I need you,” She said with a weary smile. “Please, stay?” 

Even for his guide, he could deny a Crawley nothing. “Of course, M’lady,” and Charles retook his seat again. 

~*~

Thomas had seen his thoughts, Charles was almost certain of it. 

Trying to keep a handle on his mind when it was spinning out of control at every turn was both exhausting and infuriating. He found himself wondering about the state of Thomas’ link into his mind, only to stop and curse himself when he remembered that if he was right, then  _ Thomas could hear every damn word he thought.  _

If it was true, then things were truly growing out of Charles’ control. Being able to hear Thomas’ thoughts had been a blessing, but if Thomas could now hear his own then there was truly no escaping his awareness. He would be able to understand Charles in a way that not even Elsie could. It was horribly invasive, as if someone were spying on his while he was bathing. But shame licked at his insides when he remembered that this was exactly how Thomas might feel should he ever discover that Charles could hear  _ his  _ thoughts. So what right did he have to keep that knowledge to himself? 

**  
  
**

“Well?” 

Charles looked up to find Elsie in the door to the hall, a toying smile upon her sweet lips. “Have you said you’re sorry yet? Thomas looks fit to frighten the dog.” 

Dismal at his lack of fortune and his nefarious acts, Charles bowed his head without a word. Elsie’s playful demeanor vanished to be replaced by a wave of concern. She shut the door to the hall, then walked around Charles’ desk to carefully place a hand upon his weary shoulders. 

**  
  
**

“Charles, I’m your wife and I love you,” she protested. “Tell me what’s wrong so that I can fix it. I was always better with Thomas than you.” 

“I followed him to York,” Charles mumbled, miserably. He could not bear to meet Elsie’s eyes. “He went to this… den of sin. Absolute headon- but how can I say that when I myself-?” 

He paused, let out a little sigh, then continued. “It wasn't so bad. Just a club. Music, drinking, gambling, the sort of place any young man his age might go on a night out. But it was only for men like him… like me.” 

“You’re not exactly like him,” She teased. 

“I’m close enough,” Charles said. “I saw him sitting at the bar. This horrible man was pestering him, and Thomas wandered off. The man followed him, and I didn’t like it so I went too.” 

“How do you mean?” Elsie asked. 

“I could sense the man’s intentions were less than pure.” Charles said. It felt disgusting to even mention such topics to Elsie. 

“That he meant to rob Thomas?” 

“Certainly not of his money,” Charles said. Elsie gaped in horror, her face going white at the horrible thought. 

“Oh my god-!” She said in dismay. “What did you do? Don’t tell me-- Don’t say that he was successful-” 

“No, no, I stopped him,” Charles assured her. Elsie let out an audible sigh of relief, touching her breast. 

“Oh thank god,” Elsie murmured. “But what happened then? Did you tell him you were sorry-?” 

“I told him a lot more than that,” Charles said. When Elsie kept staring, unsure of what he meant, Charles added, “It all just came spilling out of me, Elsie. Everything. I told Thomas everything and it went to hell.” 

“Oh Charlie-” Elsie sank into his visitor’s chair in dismay, “You can’t be serious-” 

“He flew into a wild temper, I’ve never seen him so mad-” And suddenly, infuriated, Charles added, “He threw a brick at me!” 

“Well I’d have thrown a brick at you too!” Elsie declared. Humbled, and rather humiliated, Charles bowed his head again. 

“I… I don’t know how to explain to you what happened next,” Charles said. “I didn’t mean it. It just… It happened so fast…” 

Elsie leaned in, wary in her concern. 

“Charles.” It was like he was being scolded by his mother. “What did you do to him?” 

“I might… accidentally…” Charles weighed the words in his hands, only to falter. “I didn’t mean to but I…” 

“But you?” 

“You know-” 

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” 

“... I kissed him.” 

Elsie gaped, silent. She looked as if someone had just slapped her in the face with a wet herring. 

“... What did he do?” Elsie whispered, afraid. 

“He slapped me.” Charles mumbled, sinking back into his chair so that the hinges groaned. “And ran away.” 

“Well thank god one of you had an ounce of sense,” Elsie snapped. “How could you do something like that, Charles? When you know how fragile he is?” 

“Forget about him!” Charles cried out. “What does it mean for us, when you are my wife!” 

“Are you trying to insist you’re going to leave me for Thomas?” Elsie scoffed. 

“No, I’d never do that-” Charles flustered. “But it… it goes against my vows. It goes against everything good and whole in Christian society-” 

“And that, right there, is why he slapped out,” Elsie pointed a finger in warning. “Imagine being kissed by a man who then turns around and claims you’re a heathen.” 

Charles wanted to be sick. 

“Charles I may not be a woman of the world, but I do not live in a sack,” Elsie assured him. Her voice turned slightly more gentle, with that warm edge which so often put him at ease. “I understand that you’re a sentinel now, and that you need to be close to your guide. I admit, if it were any other case, I’d be very upset but… this is different. You know that, and so do I. So does everyone who knows that Thomas is your guide. To be honest, I was almost expecting this.” 

“You were expecting me to desire a man?” Charles muttered irritably. 

“I was expecting you to fall in love with your guide,” Elsie said. “And I do not hold it against you now that you have. The relationship you have with Thomas now is beyond the pull of man. It’s in the laws of nature. The relationship you have with me is your own to control. You choose to love me. You don’t choose to love Thomas.” 

And indeed, he didn’t. He wished with all his heart that he could return things to the way that they had been. That he could somehow pull back the hands of time to reclaim a moment when he’d been normal and sane. But those days were long since over now, and all that lay before him was a vast universe both twisted and frightening. His senses were beyond his control; he needed Thomas to stay sane. 

He needed Thomas, full stop. 

In that moment of somber reflection, Charles looked to his wife for answers. “What do I do, Elsie?” he asked. “Help me.” 

Elsie just smiled. 

“Thomas is outside right now,” Elsie advised. “He went out for a walk. I think he was quite sad.” 

Charles looked up instinctively to his window which showed a black snowy world outside. 

“Dinner’s done and dusted,” Elsie advised. “No one would miss you if you went for a walk too.” 

He rose from his chair, pulling his jacket off a wall hook to shrug it on. He looked to Elsie, who was still smiling. 

“Please, understand,” He murmured. But she cut him off. 

“I already told you, I do,” she teased. 

“Don’t wait up for me tonight,” Charles said. “I have no idea what may happen. I might end up making him run away again.” 

“Not if you’re honest,” Elsie urged him. “I trust you, Charles, and so does Thomas whether he realizes it or not.” 

And it was that trust which gave him courage in such a fragile moment. It was trust, deep down, that served as a rudder to guide him in a difficult world. He understood trust. He could work with trust. Neither he nor Thomas nor Elsie knew the steps they were taking in that moment, but they each trusted the other to treat them well. 

And that, in the end, was all that mattered. 

Charles leaned down, and kissed Elsie deeply. Her lips were smooth despite their age, and the warmth of her skin upon his own made his heart tremble. It was like he could read her mind, like her own soul was inside his own- 

And as he kissed her, it suddenly dawned upon Charles what he needed to say to Thomas. 

He pulled back, slightly agape with surprise. Elsie just continued to smile. 

“Go,” She whispered. 

So he did. 

Charles left the abbey through the servant’s area, finding snow already upon the ground despite that morning having started off with the sun. The wind stung lightly at his neck and cheeks, but it did not bother him like it might have before. He was filled with purpose and he knew what he needed to do. 

**  
  
**

At the very edge of the servant’s yard was a path that went both left and right. If you took it left, you could wander down through the orchards towards the woods. If you took the path to the right, you’d end up back in front of the abbey. Charles stood at the crossroads and looked both ways, only to notice the flicker of a far off cigarette on the left. 

He knew instinctively Thomas was beyond the apple orchard. 

Charles set off at a brisk pace, the snow crunching beneath his shoes. He could almost smell Thomas in the air, that weird electrical fabric before a heavy summer thunderstorm. That pace which made a horses’ heart beat wildly before the chase. 

Charles came around the apple orchard, finally wandering off the path to step into the shoes of Thomas’ own path. It led him beyond an ancient oak tree, on the very final fringe of the property. Here now was the bounds of wood and glen, the final division between beast and men. A bit of brush and clipped grass was all that kept the wilds at bay. 

And there, Thomas stood. 

His head tilted, and Thomas looked over his shoulder to find Charles in his shadow. His pale skin and ruby lips were unbelievably beautiful in that moment. His pale blue eyes were haunted, like they were a thousand years old and had seen unbelievable evil in the heart of man. 

“... It’s beautiful out tonight,” Charles said. 

“Is there something you need, Mr. Carson?” Thomas asked. 

“I need to talk to you,” Charles said. 

Thomas put out his cigarette, letting it fall to the snow with a hiss to further smush it out with the toe of his shoe. “Well that is a shame because I don’t feel like talking to you.” 

He turned to leave, but Charles stopped him, reaching out to take him by the wrist and keep him still. The touch was electric, pumping Charles full of energy; with that tiny touch alone he felt ten years younger. 

“Thomas there’s something you still don’t understand,” Charles began to speak, but Thomas cut him off, jerking his wrist away angrily. 

“Oh I understand!” Thomas snapped, eyes blazing in the moonlight. “I completely understand. You’re the moral gate keeper, and anyone who isn’t exactly to your liking is cast out of the kingdom of heaven that is Downton Abbey! You pretended you were so righteous, so different than me, but you never were! From the very start, you were like me, and now you have the audacity-” 

“And I would have continued to have the audacity, had you not shown me the error of my ways!” Charles cut across, so that Thomas let out a little huff of irritation. “I know now that I’ve been wrong. You showed me that, Thomas.” 

“And I guess I’m automatically supposed to forgive you because I’m your guide?” Thomas sneered. “Because we’re both gay- or whatever the hell you are, I still haven’t figured that out-” Thomas gesutred up and down at Charles with mild disgust. 

“Thomas, listen to me-” 

“No-” 

“Listen to me!” Charles barked. Thomas did a double take, shocked at the raise in voice. In the silence that followed, Charles let out a slow breath to calm himself. 

He had to remember now that Thomas could hear his thoughts just as well as Charles could hear his. They were on even playing fields. 

“Thomas… I understand your mind,” Charles began. Thomas rolled his eyes. 

“You think you could ever understand what goes on inside my head?” 

“I have been for weeks,” Charles said. 

“Because you’re a sentinel?” Thomas sneered. “Even for you that’s a bit of a stretch.” 

“... Because I can hear your thoughts.” Charles said. “I can hear them as loudly as I hear your own voice. And they’re beautiful.” 

Thomas stared, with a peculiar expression upon his face as if he couldn’t quite understand what he’d just heard. “I’m sorry?” Thomas asked. 

“Thomas, I didn’t want to tell you at first,” Charles admitted. “The sore truth of it is that I was selfish, and wanted to keep your thoughts to myself. But I’ve been able to hear inside your mind for weeks now… and I think you’re starting to hear inside of mine-” 

“Would you get a hold of yourself?!” Thomas demanded, outraged. “Listen to yourself-” 

_ He’s out of his mind,  _ Thomas thought irritably. 

“He’s out of his mind,” Charles blurted. Thomas stared, unsure. 

“That’s what you just thought.” Charles said. Thomas opened his mouth as if to say something, and yet nothing came out. 

_ Red green yellow blue white,  _ Thomas thought. 

“Red green yellow blue white,” Charles repeated. 

And then, it all dawned upon Thomas with absolute horror. He looked terror stricken, like the devil had jumped up out of a foxhole to chase him to the ends of the earth. 

“It’s been happening for ages now,” Charles murmured, his voice softened with regret. “I didn’t ask for it, but I should have told you before now, I know that. But it’s how I was able to find you at Turpins, when that awful man was about to have his wicked way with you.” 

_ Oh my god,  _ Thomas thought in horror. “You… invaded me... “ he whispered, “In the one place I could hide from you-” 

_ How could you do this to me?  _ Thomas wondered. 

“I didn’t ask for it, Thomas,” Charles begged him to see sense. “I have been hearing your thoughts since the day we shocked ourselves. But hearing you…. It’s made me…” Charles knew he was rambling. “I have these feelings that are so strong, so deep I can seldom understand them. But I must have you. I must possess you. You’ve become my moral compass. I need to have you close. So close… that I could lay thoughts upon your mind like they were sheets of paper. I crave your touch-” 

And as if inspired by his own words, Charles reached out to carefully take up Thomas’ hands in his own. They were freezing in the chilly air. He cupped Thomas’ hands to his breast, so that Thomas could feel his heartbeat beneath his tweed coat. 

He closed his eyes, and allowed himself to feel. Allowed Thomas to sense the honesty and humility within him, the majesty of the earth and the sky. It was like his soul had opened up, like he’d taken a key and had unlocked a door so anxious and crusty that the bolts were rusted shut. The light poured through his eyes; the universe seemed massive and infinitesimally small. 

And at the center of it were they two. 

When Charles opened his eyes again, he found Thomas thunderstruck, his beautiful face agape and his eyes lightly close at the sensation of being so in tune with Charles. 

_ I’m scared,  _ Thomas thought. He felt so small to Charles in that moment, like a child under his protection. 

_ So am I,  _ Charles thought,  _ But Elsie trusts me to be what you need. And that trust empowers me to do what’s right.  _

_ She knows?  _ Thomas wondered, blue eyes opened to stare up in wonder in Charles. How marvelous, he thought, that Thomas’ voice in his head sounded so soft and sweet. 

_ Everything,  _ Charles confirmed. 

Thomas closed his eyes again, a move of trust that Charles adored.  _ What do you want from me?  _ Thomas asked. Charles could sense the pain behind his words. The fear that he would not be enough, ultimately. 

_ To understand,  _ Charles thought. 

_ What?  _ Thomas thought. 

_ Myself,  _ Charles thought. 

And then, Thomas looked up with watering eyes, tears suddenly spilling upon his pale and beautiful cheeks. In that moment, Charles could feel everything. His miserable loneliness, his desperate desire to be loved, and above all, his deep connection with the abbey that he hid out of fear of being mocked. 

“I thought you hated me,” Thomas said. In Thomas’ mind, Charles saw images of his past pomposity. Of all the times that Thomas had been so close to sharing his heart only to be denied because Charles wasn’t paying proper attention. 

“No,” Charles said, softly. 

And then, another truth, so tiny and somber that it broke Charles’ heart. 

“I hate me,” Thomas croaked. 

Overwhelmed, Charles leaned down once again, and before Thomas could admit to any more self loathing Charles kissed him sweetly upon the mouth. 

It was not a pressed harried kiss like before in the sewers beneath Turpins. It was a shocking kiss of deepest devotion, something beyond human nature that instead revolved at the center of everything. Though their lips were what connected them physically, Charles mind exploded as if Thomas has merged their brains together instead. 

In that moment, as he caressed Thomas with freezing hands and pulled him close, Charles found his sanity. He found a deep aching part of him that had vanished weeks ago, like two pieces of a ripped jigsaw that could only fit with each other or nothing at all. He could understand Thomas as deeply as he understood himself. He could feel the power and the pain in Thomas’ lithe body. The warmth of his soul, and the beauty of his heart. His wild determination to be brave despite the obstacles, and his ability to survive beyond what others could. 

They broke apart for the sheer need of air, the pair of them gasping into each other’s mouths. 

****  
  


_ Jesus Christ,  _ Thomas thought, and though he did not speak Charles could hear his mind groaning from the shock of their kiss. He felt quite the same. 

He pulled Thomas in, holding him tightly to his chest. He was a good half-foot taller than Thomas, so that the shorter man fit quaintly into the crook of his neck. Charles petted his hair as if he were a child rather than a full grown man, overwhelmed by his love in that moment. 

He stared out over the horizon, wondering at the beauty of the world around him, only to spot the groundskeeper’s cabin on the edge of the lawn. 

It was vacant at this time of the year. 

Inspiration and desire dawned upon Charles. He let go of Thomas, their hands still clasped tightly so that he could pull Thomas along. 

_ Come with me,  _ Charles thought. 

Thomas went without a fuss. 


	7. Sentinel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Thomas become one, with the ultimate consequence of Charles discovering the truth behind Thomas' trauma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for **child abuse and spanking**

Inside the groundskeeper’s cabin, time stood still in a strange fragile balance. Charles’ breath hung in the air, coming out in soft white puffs. As Thomas entered behind him, Charles shut the door and carefully slid the lock so that they were given a solitary space away from the unforgiving world outside. 

This moment felt so tender and ripe, like even the tiniest prick of movement might cause it to shatter entirely. 

_ What is this place?  _ Thomas wondered, looking about at the cobwebbed ceiling and the dusty floors. It was hardly a romantic boudoir, crammed with shelves full of knick knacks and a creaky old bed in the far right corner next to an ancient iron radiator. 

“A cabin for the groundskeeper,” Charles said, answering Thomas’ thought. “He sleeps here when it’s hunting season.” 

Thomas looked about, noting the hunting traps that lay tucked away. They were vicious, barbaric things with steely jaws dripping in rust from kills long past. But there were more curious things upon the groundskeeper’s desk, such as a tiny ceramic pot which seemed to have been hand shaped out of rudimentary clay. Thomas plucked it up, raising a finely arched eyebrow. 

“Odd,” he muttered, setting the pot back down. 

“It seems Mr. Gale is an artist,” Charles mused on the old groundskeeper. Clearly you learned something new every day. 

_ He thinks he’s an artist,  _ Thomas thought with a sneer. 

“Everyone’s a critic.” 

But then, just when Charles thought their little kiss might be a one off destined for the shelves, Thomas turned and looked at up with such intensity that Charles was nearly brought to his knees. His eyes burned like a liquid blue flame coating every pore of his irises. Charles felt like he was bathing in that light. Like he was sinking or swimming, either way in a bliss. 

Instinctively, Charles reached out and touched Thomas’ shoulder. The feeling was electric, consuming; Charles pulled Thomas near to have more of it. He burrowed his hooked nose into Thomas’ temple, smelling the faint trace of pomade near the boy’s ear. 

“This is insanity,” Thomas said, which was quite true. “I feel like I’m out of my mind.” 

But he was relaxing into Charles’ arms, allowing himself to float there blissfully so that Charles could wrap him up and keep him close. 

“Really, I feel like I’m in it-” Charles muttered into Thomas’ skin. 

“My mind?” 

“Your something.” And just to prove the point, Charles trailed his thick fingers up to Thomas’ slim neck so that he might squeeze at the organ. It was thrilling to hold Thomas so tenderly, to have complete and utter power over the one thing that had always evaded him. 

And then, like a wire pulled tight, Thomas snapped. 

He jerked up and out, turning on Charles to kiss him full on the mouth like they were randy teenagers behind the bike shed. He grabbed with desperate, needy fingers, searching for the buttons upon Charles’ outer livery jacket. It fell to the floor unimpeded. 

He’d never been touched this way, but it was primal and something he could respond to like clockwork. He pressed against Thomas’ soft, sweet mouth, cupping the man’s sharp cheeks before pressing him hard against the groundskeeper’s shelves so that a few traps clattered noisily to the floor. The impact caused one to spring shut, so that iron jaws snapped dangerously close to Thomas’ thin ankle. 

It was a jarring sound, and caused them to both pause mid-kiss. Thomas and Charles both looked down, noting the trap and it’s proximity to Thomas’ flesh. 

“... This is slightly dangerous,” Thomas muttered, as if they hadn’t been snogging five seconds before. 

They couldn’t keep standing up, that was for certain. Charles’ eyes drifted towards the bed in the far corner. It was unmade, slightly dusty, and probably freezing in the awful winter weather. 

Thomas had noticed his gaze. 

_ What is he…  _ But Thomas’ inner thoughts trailed into silence, as if he was internally correcting himself beyond what even what Charles could sense.  _ What are you thinking?  _

Charles leaned in and kissed Thomas again, soft and sweet like he might have read from a book.  _ I want to be without distance. I want to be one with you. I want our minds to be sheets, pressed tight.  _

_ How.  _

But the ideas that Charles was having were not meant to be spoken. They were too lustful, too sinful to even contemplate aloud without offending the ears of every passing man, woman, and child. His Victorian sensibilities were wrestling with his Edwardian desire for pleasure and losing terribly. He knew, in that moment, that he was going to give in to the age old vice once more. That he was going to lay with Thomas, and be with him just as he’d been with Elsie on their wedding night. 

But more. So much more. 

Charles gently fingered Thomas’ collar, still stiff with a starched bowtie.One tug was all it took to delicately undo the knot, and Thomas’ bowtie came away cleanly. He heard the boy let out a repressed shudder as Charles lay the bowtie upon the moth eaten mattress beside them. They were both still more than clothed, but this bizarre act felt like the popping of a cork. Like they were practically naked before one another now despite still being fully clothed. 

It inspired a ravishing lust within him. 

Charles reached out and carefully plucked at the slim buttons upon the front of Thomas’ livery. They came away like butter between his fingers, revealing the stiff pleats beneath. As Thomas began to take over, Charles sat down upon the mattress and watched entranced. 

Thomas shrugged off his outer livery coat, letting it fall to the floor. Charles’ reaction was a primal one, popping forth before he could stop himself. 

“Ah... “ Charles tutted, “Such impudence in my presence.” 

Thomas let out an exhausted sigh, as if Charles were his father instead of his lover. “Really? We’re not at work.” 

“We’re always at work, you and I,” Charles teased. This made Thomas grin, a precious treasure indeed. 

“Pick it up, be prompt about it.” Charles commanded. Thomas swiftly did as he was bade, taking his livery up from off the floor and laying it over the back of the groundskeeper’s desk chair. 

“Are you telling me how to undress now?” 

“I am the butler,” Charles reminded him. 

Thomas scoffed, but that playful smile was still tugging at the corners of his beautiful lips. He began to undress properly, undoing the clasps of his suspenders and shrugging his outer shirt. Each article of clothing was laid over the groundskeeper’s chair to keep it from staining upon the floor. Thomas’ arms were muscled from years of hard labor, his wrists wrapped tight in softened leather holdings so that he might be able to carry more heavy items upon trays. 

Slightly shy, Thomas bent over and began to take off his trousers. He wouldn’t meet Charles’ eyes as he pulled them off, unlacing his boots and tucking them to the side. He was shivering, undoubtedly from the biting cold of the cabin. In an effort to warm them better, Charles leaned over and fiddled with the knob of an ancient radiator. It guttered and groaned, spitting out a tiny bit of steam, but the room began to warm even if only a little. 

Thomas’ cheeks were pink; he was biting upon his lower lip whether he knew it or not, some sort of instinctual habit to hide his fear or confusion. But nothing was hidden from Charles. He could sense every thought in Thomas’ head. So many layers, deeper and deeper they went like he was peeling back the core of an ancient fruit. 

He was unspooling the yarn of the universe. 

_ Don’t muck this up.  _

_ I wish I was younger. I wish I looked better.  _

_ Why does he want me when I’m soiled goods?  _

_ How can I ever tell him what this means to me?  _

_ He has no idea what he does to me.  _

_ I don’t want to take off my wrist wraps.  _

_ Please love me.  _

At that, Charles reached out to tenderly take Thomas by the wrist so that he could not pull down his pants. Thomas glanced at him, eyes burning. 

“What?” Thomas mumbled. “Do you… not want to-?” 

“Don’t be silly,” Charles murmured. “I just want to admire you for a moment. You always knew how to keep yourself in good company.” 

Thomas was taken aback. “You like what you see?” 

Like what he saw? What  _ wasn’t  _ there to like? 

Thomas’ face was like that of an angel. His soft black hair and burning blue eyes were enough to tempt any man to sin. His lips were as red as blood, stirring something primal deep within Charles. His willowy body, lean and white, reminded him of a drawing he might have found on a biscuit tin meant to inspire a tommy abroad. But the real allure of Thomas was more than just his body. It was his very soul. The boy was so withdrawn, so secluded, that when you finally got to pull back the sheet and see what was on the other side, it almost felt like you were finding a secret grotto complete with crystal waterfall and lush vegetation. Like you’d hit the final eden at the end of a parched desert. 

That was the beauty of Thomas Barrow. He was a rarity reserved for those who did the work… and Charles had more than put in enough hours. 

“Keep at it,” Charles urged with a smile. “I didn’t say you could stop.” 

“Pushy, aren’t we.” 

“I like to make my point known.” 

Thomas bent over, unsnapping his sock garters. They were aged things; he needed to buy new ones and soon. Thomas hopped a bit as he stood back up barefoot upon the chilly floor. It was clear he didn’t like it; the radiator was doing a piss poor job of warming the new room. 

_ I must order a new radiator,  _ Charles thought. 

_ I’m sorry am I boring you?  _ Thomas thought back. 

In response, Charles reached out and grabbed Thomas by the hand to pull him close. Sitting upon the bed, Charles was level with Thomas’ navel. He pressed a chaste kiss there, pausing to suckle at the skin beneath his tongue. 

Thomas gasped, his stomach muscles flexing at the touch. 

He let go, relaxing and smiling up at Thomas coyly. Thomas looked ready to faint from the simple touch alone. 

But nothing was simple between them… certainly not this. 

Charles’ hands slid from Thomas’ waist to his hips, touching the soft cotton rim of his pants. He let the weight of his hands do the rest. 

Fully revealed, Thomas’ eyes fluttered closed. With his flesh exposed, his soul retreated to his mind where he could be safest. But Charles knew the path to there too, and could hear Thomas all the way. 

_ What am I doing?  _

_ This is wrong. This is sinful.  _

_ I wish I could change _

_ I wish I was normal.  _

“You are normal,” Charles whispered aloud. The body he saw him was very normal. No two shakes about it… very normal and very fine. Superb even. 

A slight trail of dark wispy hair led to a place to only other men could truly understand best. At its base, the center of Thomas’ being… as normal as you’d find on any other man. 

_ The scriptures are wrong.  _ Charles thought.  _ The laws are wrong. There is nothing abnormal about this. About you. About us.  _ And just to show that he meant it, Charles reached out and carefully grasped at Thomas’ manhood. The feeling of velvet skin beneath his aged fingertips was like and electric shock. Thomas gasped, his eyes flying open and his cheeks pinking with blood. 

“So young and supple,” Charles whispered. “You make me feel old.” 

It was difficult not to feel crippled when beholding someone as beautiful and young as Thomas. 

_ You are old,  _ Thomas thought.

In an act of playful retaliation, Charles pushed Thomas to his knees. Thomas went to the floor without a fight, now looking up at Charles with nothing short of adoration. 

Thomas had never stared at him in such a way, as if Charles were his savior. 

“Old enough?” Charles replied. 

“Exactly,” Thomas whispered. The smile that blossomed over his face was so lovely, so genuine, that Charles could not help but compliment it. 

“I do believe that is the first time I’ve ever seen you smile,” He wondered aloud. “And I daresay that it is a most beautiful sight.” 

Thomas flushed with embarrassment, looking down. It seemed he could not stand to be complimented. Charles reached out and took Thomas’ face in his hands, forcing him to look back up. 

“You’re my valet for the evening,” He whispered, eyebrows flickering up jovially. “And my footman. I’ve just decided.” 

“I’m not on duty,” Thomas said. 

Charles reached over to where Thomas’ bowtie still lay upon the bed and took it up to lace it back around Thomas’ throat. He’d tied so many knots over the years that it was a quick flick of the wrist for him to put Thomas right again. 

Thomas laughed. 

It was the first time Charles had heard him do so. 

“What are you, Lord Grantham’s billiard partner?” Thomas teased as Charles threaded his fingers through his hair. 

“Undress me,” Charles petted him fondly. “Or what good are you, Thomas?” 

He rose from the bed, standing before Thomas as any man needing a valet might have done. Normally you valet wasn’t naked on their knees before you with a raging erection, but these were desperate times and exemptions had to be made. 

Thomas reached out, not even bothering Charles’ shirtsleeves to instead go straight for the trousers; just like a child, to want the sweet before the meal. 

“It’s been a while since you’ve played in these waters,” Thomas murmured, a sultry edge sneaking into his voice. That would never do. “Let me show you what you’ve missed.” 

No. 

Charles reached out with a hard hand, stopping Thomas cold even as he tried to unbutton his trousers. A fierce, dominant edge had risen within him; he could not tame the beast that leapt out when Thomas tried to toy with him. 

“No,” Charles growled. Thomas’ eyes were as wide as coins, amazed at the guttural edge in his voice. “You do as I say, tonight and every night. You undress me properly and be smart about it. I’m in charge, here. Never forget it.” 

At these words, Charles felt Thomas shudder beneath his fingertips. His blood was rushing quicker at the pulse, excitement picking up at his core. Deep down, Charles could sense the traces of submission within Thomas, something sacred that he kept locked away for fear of being mocked. 

There would be no mocking of submission tonight. It was what was expected, required ... desired. 

“I can feel how it arouses you,” Charles whispered. Thomas closed his eyes again, this time leaning against Charles’ legs to wrap his arms about his thighs. He clung to Charles like a child. “To let me be in charge. You like it. You want it. To be beneath me in every way that exists. Admit it.” 

But Thomas couldn’t. Not verbally at least. Yet as a sentinel, Charles could pick up on every thread that ran through Thomas’ being. The answer to his question lay not in a verbal cue but an emotional recognition. The way that Thomas pressed his face into Charles’ thigh, trusting Charles not to hurt him. 

_ Yes,  _ Thomas seemed to say. 

“Then undress me, Thomas,” Charles ordered again, this time more kind than before. “And be quick about it.” 

Thomas rose to his feet, letting out a tiny breath that Charles could only hear due to his heightened senses. Without a word, Thomas began to unlace Charles’ bowtie which he laid upon the bed. He unbuttoned his shirtsleeves with care, unlacing his cufflinks and setting them on the bedside table so that they would not be lost in the tussle. Charles shrugged out of his shirt, allowing Thomas to take it. By the time they got through suspenders, shoes, socks, and garters, Thomas was practically in a trance. His eyes were hooded, his gaze lustful but somehow also closed. 

Charles could sense that Thomas was lost in his own head. It was a precious place, and one that was entrusted to Charles with care. He would have to be sure to take care of Thomas tonight. 

But as Thomas undid the clasp of Charles’ trousers and finally allowed them to fall to the floor, he suddenly stiffened with a slight laugh. It seemed that he found Charles long johns funny, which was silly really because his pants were the traditional- 

Oh, not this nonsense again. 

“Your old,” Thomas teased; there was no malice in his voice. “A fuddy duddy.” 

Normally such a comment would have made Charles want to put him on polishing duty. As it stood however, Charles knew that it was a joke and one meant to make light of an emotionally awkward situation. Something very long ago had happened to stunt Thomas’ emotional growth… it seemed he’d never quite matured past it. 

“Am I?” Charles declared. “Am I indeed?” 

“Uhuh,” Thomas said. There was a lazy grin spreading across his face. With coy hands, he reached out and palmed Charles through his trousers. Oh, the heat that inflamed him-! The passion of a younger man’s touch- 

But no, this would never do. He was in control, not Thomas. Thomas had to learn that, and quickly, if this night were to progress smoothly. 

“I can see you’re going to be as much of a handful in bed as you are out of it,” Charles murmured. He bent down, pressing a kiss to Thomas’ lips only to be received by an incredible passion. Thomas pushed his pants down until they pooled at the floor. Now he was roaming, reaching for things best left alone… but if Thomas could play, why not he? 

So Charles allowed his hands to travel down the supple sinews of Thomas’ back, reaching his buttocks. They were full and firm, in shape from years of running and up down stairs. Charles squeezed the flash he found there in a powerful and commanding grip, relishing at the groan he heard trickle from the back of Thomas’ throat.

He wanted more. He wanted total control.

“Hands behind your back,” Charles whispered. Thomas obeyed at once. 

“Such a good footman,” Charles praised, cupping Thomas’ wrists to the small of his back so that they were pressed tight against the flesh there. Thomas seemed to be riding some kind of nirvana like high, his eyes barely opened and his lips full of blood. “I always knew you could be trained into submission.” 

Charles’ erection was pressing into Thomas’ upper thigh. He’d not been this aroused since his time as a young man in London’s back alley theatres. 

_ God, his cock is so _ \- but Charles cut off Thomas’ thought by grabbing his chin in a tight grip. Thomas hitched the tiniest breath, his eyes completely closed. 

“Language,” Charles whispered in his ear. “Do you think I’d allow such insolence while you work?” 

“M’not workin’,” Thomas mumbled. 

“Oh I can assure you…” Charles paused to bite tenderly at his fleshy earlobe. “You’re on the clock tonight.” Thomas shuddered. 

“I-” 

“No talking,” Charles commanded. Thomas fell silent. “I have better uses for your mouth tonight.” 

So often, he’d seen Thomas smirk, smoke, sneer, and snarl. Now, he wanted to see Thomas do something much sweeter with his mouth. Something much more lovely. 

With a careful hand, he helped Thomas to his knees. Thomas went willingly, looking up at Charles with doe eyes that filled him with an enormous lustful rage. 

That look was reserved for him aloud. That beautiful, innocent, kind look which the world had so frequently damned. 

Charles’ hand slid to Thomas’ face, brushing at his lips. Thomas allowed his thumb entry into his mouth, where his tongue lavished affection upon the digit. 

Christ, he was going to come to his zenith before Thomas even had his fill at this rate. 

Their thoughts and emotions were one. Without so much as a ‘how do you do’, Thomas let Charles’ thumb slip out of his mouth to take his member instead. Charles gasped at the sensation, so liquid warm and tight- 

Good god-! 

For all the nasty things that Thomas could say in the heat of the moment, he was clearly a mastermind at using his mouth for kinder pleasures. For a moment, Charles felt his hands go numb. He was either having a stroke, or Thomas knew his way around a penis. 

But there was more, oh so much more… Beneath the lust and the desire, Charles could sense the inner most thoughts that Thomas had. The thoughts of longing, and even deeper than that the desire to be submissive. To submit to Charles in the most intimate of ways, and let him use his body however he chose. 

And even deeper than that, the longing for punishment. For bending and breaking at Charles’ hands. 

Thomas’ hands slipped from behind his back, coming to rest at Charles’ stout hips. 

Charles knew what he was innately asking for. 

It took all of his utter willpower to drag himself out of that lustful haze and command Thomas to stop, but he did so. It didn’t help that a trail of saliva came away as Thomas pulled back, his lips swollen and puffy. 

_ What? _ Thomas thought.  _ Did I do something wrong?  _

_ You broke position, _ Charles thought. Thomas let out a petulant groan, his head lolling upon his shoulders. 

_ Please, _ he thought. How could he whine inside his own head? 

_ No,  _ Charles thought. Thomas blinked slowly at him. _ I am in charge. Hands behind your back.  _

Thomas did so without hesitation. 

Charles reached down with a careful hand, letting his fingers wrap around Thomas’ bowtie to pull him to his feet again. It was utterly thrilling to be so empowered over such a delicate creature. Even the tiniest twitch of his finger might result in Thomas being unable to breath. 

But he wouldn’t twitch, and Thomas knew that. 

“I want you,” Charles admitted. 

“Yes,” There was no question, not even the tiniest hint of resistance. 

“I want all of you.” 

“Anything,” Thomas said. It was a promise Charles intended on making him keep. 

He pushed Thomas backwards till the small of his back hit the edge of the groundskeepers desk. Charles didn’t have to speak to tell Thomas what to do. He simply had to see the image in his mind, to urge, and Thomas responded at once. He turned and bent over the desk; Charles noted a tremor running through his limbs. 

He was terrified of being hurt emotionally, of being destroyed by Charles. He knew he had the power, and that Thomas gave it over to him willingly, but that terror which it left in its wake was something Charles could not remedy with a thought alone. 

He needed to show Thomas with his actions. To help him understand that not all the world was full of panic and pain. 

Charles sucked on his fingers for a moment, pondering at the sight of Thomas bent over the desk. His skin was almost white in the moonlight, with flecks of darkness created from dirt on the window pane above. 

“Beautiful,” Charles wondered aloud. “Absolutely beautiful.” 

How in the hell had he worked with Thomas for nearly twenty years and not realized just how gorgeous the man was? Had he been completely insane? 

His sanity was rendered null and void as he reached down with moistened fingers. He hadn’t been able to see, but tonight he would be able to feel and that was more than enough to make up for lost time. 

The tight heat that he found waiting for him was enough to prove him correct. 

Thomas let out the tiniest moan, and Charles could not blame him. Sex with a sentinel was beyond that of an ordinary human copulation. Part of Charles could feel himself preparing Thomas. Part of him could likewise feel what Thomas was feeling. 

It was maddening. 

It was extraordinary. 

That warm burning ache deep at Thomas’ core was as addictive to Charles as it was to him. He chased it, pushing his fingers deeper and faster to find that place only men like them knew about. By the end of it, Thomas was close to screaming from ecstasy. Charles knew implicitly that no lover had ever been able to care for him in this way. It was physically impossible to be inside another’s body, but Charles’ connection served as a cheat that he shamelessly exploited. 

He wanted more, and Charles would gladly give it to him. 

_ My little footman, _ Charles thought. Thomas shuddered beneath him, perfectly still with his hands still behind his back. Charles slid his palm up along Thomas’ buttocks, taking him by the wrists so that he could hold him carefully. 

In the light of the moon, his leather wrist cuffs gleamed. It was the one article of clothing he never removed. The one that hid his deepest shame. 

But there would be no shame here tonight. 

Charles lined himself up at Thomas’ entrance, the head of his arousal weeping openly with desire. He felt Thomas hitch a breath in sightest anticipation of the pain. 

_ Let it push, _ Charles thought. 

He entered Thomas. Thomas let out a cry, his eyes pinched shut at the feeling. But god it was utter bliss! 

Charles had to refrain from slamming his entire length into Thomas, and it was just as well. The boy was already screaming, lustful in his desires. Desperate to keep them from being found, Charles reached around with his free hand and cupped Thomas’ mouth tight. His muffled moans were downright delirious. 

In and out, Charles could think of nothing save for the sensations swirling in his brain. In his sixty two years of life, he’d thought he’d experienced everything. This, however, was something entirely knew. To make love, and at the same time feel someone making love to him. It was as if he was both on top and on bottom, somehow stuck in the middle. Thomas was the same, his mind an open playground for Charles to run through. 

He could see images from Thomas’ deepest hedonistic desires. Of them making love in the servant’s hall. Of him splayed against Charles’ desk, legs lifted and back bent to give Charles exactly wanted how he wanted it. 

Charles smirked, thinking  _ Our little secret…  _

“GOD!” Thomas shrieked behind his hand. 

But there was another image, one so dark and deep that it seemed Thomas was trying to hide it from him. What could it be? With gentle pressure, Charles pushed against Thomas’ resistance in tandem with the rhythm of his hips. Brick by brick, the fog pulled back to see Thomas’ thoughts. 

Of Charles spanking Thomas in the privacy of the silver pantry. 

Thomas tried to pull his mind back, tried to hide his desires, but he couldn’t get far. Pressed between a rock and a hard place, Charles kept Thomas pinned to the desk even as he kept his mind pinned open. 

A smile toyed at Charles’ lips, his hand slipping from Thomas’ mouth to cup at his buttocks in a painfully tight grip. Thomas let out another shriek, perhaps sensing what was coming. 

With all the strength he possessed, Charles smacked Thomas hard across the backside, slamming into him in the same glorious second. Unable to hide his pleasure, Thomas let out a scream of utter ecstasy. 

So Charles spanked him again. 

And again. 

And  _ again.  _

By the time he paused, Thomas’ backside was flaming hot and raw, pink just like his stretched entrance. He was sobbing, groaning against the desk unable to get enough air. Charles slowed like a train coming to a stop at last, carefully slipping free from Thomas’ entrance. 

_ Please,  _ Thomas thought, his tone utterly pathetic. Charles didn’t even know what he was asking for. Either way, he’d still give it to him. 

_ Bed,  _ Charles carefully picked Thomas up from the desk, holding him in his arms. The front of Thomas’ chest was speckled with grit and grime due to the sweat pouring down his chest. His legs trembled beneath Charles. 

Thomas stumbled and fell, landing in an undignified manner against the bed. Charles went with him, laying over Thomas and allowing him to get comfortable against the two lone pillows that the bed possessed. 

_ Up on my shoulders,  _ Charles gently patted Thomas’ thighs. Thomas tried to lift them only to fall at the last second. The adrenaline and shock going through him would not allow his body to cooperate. Charles helped him, lining himself back up with Thomas so that as he moved forward he entered into him once again. 

The sensation was somehow more painful and raw than before. Thomas sobbed, his eyes screwed up tight against the pleasure. 

The sight of Thomas’ member slapping against his stomach with every thrust gave Charles inspiration. He reached down, taking one of Thomas’ hands in his own to wrap them both around Thomas’ penis. He shuddered violently, the head leaking against their fists. 

_ Touch yourself,  _ Charles commanded. Shakily, Thomas began to do so. But he was going too fast, chasing pleasure like a dog might chase a motorcar.  _ Slower,  _ he commanded. 

At once, Thomas did so. 

_ You don’t get to find completion until I say so,  _ Charles warned. Thomas whined aloud, so he kissed him to silence him. 

But their physical pleasure were being lost in their thoughts, the pair of them making more love with their minds than their bodies ever could. Even as Charles thrust into Thomas and Thomas tugged at himself, their brains were colliding and merging as well. Every thought that passed through Thomas, Charles could likewise understand and grasp. Nothing was hidden between them. 

_ I thought you didn’t like me,  _ Thomas thought. 

_ Never,  _ Charles assured him. 

_ I thought I wasn’t good enough-  _

_ You were always good enough.  _

_ I want to be yours.  _

_ You already are.  _ Charles said. Thomas hitched, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. He was about to climax-! 

Charles stopped his hand, eyes burning into Thomas’ own.  _ Stop.  _

Thomas let out an ungodly scream of frustration and pleasure, even as Charles pressed himself hard against him. 

“Please-” Thomas begged. 

“No.” 

“Please!” 

“Not yet-” 

“PLEASE I BEG YOU!” Thomas screamed. He couldn’t hold on much longer at this point. 

So Charles decided a little mercy was in order. 

The thought of being utterly in control was what pushed him over the edge in the end, and Charles came deep inside Thomas’ passage. “Yes-” He gasped out. 

Unable to stop, Thomas came as well. 

For a moment they could do nothing but gain their breath back. They were both drenched in a cold sweat, their muscles sore and their limbs trembling from the exertion of their lovemaking. 

Charles looked down at Thomas, but was shocked to find that there were unshed tears sparkling in the corner of his eyes. 

“Thomas?” Charles murmured. 

And just like that, Thomas burst into noisy tears. 

At first, Charles was frightened that Thomas’ tears were from pain due to their vigorous love making. But inside of Thomas were waves of sorrow; Charles could sense it intimately. He wasn’t crying from any physical pain. He was crying from sorrow. From a lifetime spent cut off from humanity. 

Maybe that was why Thomas had been so horrified at the idea of being Charles’ guide in the first place. 

He’d been scared of being connected to someone. 

Charles rolled onto his side to keep from squashing Thomas into the mattress, and swept him up in his great arms. Against his collarbone, Thomas wept and trembled, his soul utterly bared. 

“Hush pet,” Charles whispered in Thomas ear. “Hush.” 

And by the time that Thomas went to sleep an hour later, the tears were dried from his cheeks. 

But sleep would not come easy for Charles that night. 

~*~

**  
  
**

_ Something was not right.  _

_ Charles was, somehow, standing in the freezing cold where before he’d been warm and sleeping in bed with Thomas.  _

_ The air about him was frigid and still. A sense of terrible unease was about him, making him feel like he might be violently sick at any moment. It took him a second to realize that it was fear he was feeling. Fear, of all things. But fear of what?  _

_ He looked up, and saw a foreign frozen street. Snow was drifting slowly down from a black inky sky. A few gas street lamps lit the way every so often, throwing cold light onto ancient English houses for the lower classes. An aura of filth permeated every square inch of the place.  _

_ Charles’ eyes roamed the scene, only stopping when he found a sign above a door: Barrow & Son Clockworks.  _

**  
  
**

_ He became aware that he was not alone.  _

_ Someone was standing next to him.  _

_ Thomas.  _

_ Charles turned, and looked at his guide. “Where are we?” He asked. His voice sounded terribly far away as if he were speaking through a long pipe.  _

_ “Hell,” Thomas replied with a croak.  _

**  
  
  
**

_ Without warning, chaos broke out on the silent, frigid scene.  _

_ The door of Barrow & Sons was kicked open so that it smacked against the opposite wall. A man, lean and vicious looking, held a kicking screaming child in his arms. A boy, in threadbare pajamas with inky black hair.  _

_ The man threw the boy hard into the streets, so that the boy fell painfully onto the snow and skinned his raw palms. The child yipped in pain, curling up into a tiny ball to avoid the freezing stone.  _

_ The man was nearly bowled over as a woman broke past him from within the house. Charles had seen this woman before in Thomas’ most fragile moments. He knew her from her beauty alone. From her terror.  _

_ The terror of a mother.  _

_ “He’s never done a harm, Nathan!” The woman screamed, throwing herself upon the child so that he was protected from the man’s rage. “He’s never done a harm!”  _

_ “Mum help me-!” Wailed the child.  _

_ The man towered over both of them, grabbing the woman off of her child by her hair so that she cried out in pain and clutched at her scalp.  _

_ “Nathan, let me go!” She cried out, eyes screwed up with pain. The man flung her to the steps of the shop, now standing unopposed over the boy.  _

_ But the woman did not stop. She tried to grab the boy again, only to be caught around the waist by the man who drug her forcibly up the steps. He shoved her bodily back into Barrow & Son’s, slamming the door on her and locking it so that she was trapped inside.  _

_ Even from within the walls of the filthy house, Charles could hear her screaming.  _

_ “THOMAS!” She banged as hard as she could upon the glass, throwing herself at the door so that it quaked.  _

_ The man descended the stairs, leering at the boy who crouched upon the snow.  _

_ Charles knew what was about to happen, but it was still horrifying to watch.  _

_ Like a predator, like some kind of animal, the man leapt onto the child and began to pummel him mercilessly. His punches were strong and solid, cracking the child’s fragile head against the pavement so that blood suddenly stained the snow a bright red.  _

_ “Feckin’ lavender whore!” The man cursed violently, “I should have smothered you in your crib!”  _

_ “Mum, help me-!” The child sobbed from beneath his father’s abuse.  _

_ The door to the shop quaked, and then a sudden shattering of glass ripped through the air like a knife. One of the lower window panes had been broken out in the door, with the mother’s pale arm reaching through like a disturbing spider. She unlocked the door from the outside, forcing her self out again with blood trickling down her forearm. She flung herself once more upon her husband, forcing him off of her child to protect him and hold him against her breast.  _

_ The boy was crying, terrified.  _

_ The boy was Thomas Barrow.  _

_ “Mum-” Thomas sobbed into her breast, frightened to death of his father. Alice Barrow looked up at her husband with both fierce indignation and loathing. It was clear who she loved more.  _

_ “Nathan, he’s never done a wrong!” She shouted, her voice echoing against the filthy stone walls of the neighboring houses. “So what if he’s different!? He’s our son! Look at him, Nathan! Look at what you’ve done to your son! My son-” Alice held Thomas’ bleeding head close, tending to him sweetly. “My sweet baby-”  _

_ “That creature is no son of mine!” Nathan Barrow snarled.  _

_ “Yes he is!” Alice shot him down, “And he always will be no matter what you say! You’re not god, Nathan! You don’t get to decide who lives and who dies! Christ taught us to love, why can’t you do that same?! Are you a devil or a man?!”  _

_ The answer to Alice’s question came in the form of her husband’s rage.  _

_ Furious at being denied and questioned by his wife, Nathan Barrow grabbed her forcibly off of Thomas, throwing her onto the stairs. When Thomas tried to follow her, Nathan kicked him hard. His foot connected with Thomas’ throat, and Thomas arched backward to slam into the pavement where he lay motionless.  _

_ “THOMAS!” Alice screamed, desperate to reach for her son. Nathan grabbed her before she could, dragging her back up the stairs of their family home to throw her bodily once more back inside. He held the doorway closed, leering down at his own child with loathing.  _

_ “Get gone, or I’m callin’ the bobbies!” Nathan snarled.  _

_ “THOMAS!” Alice screamed from inside the house. The door quaked, a sign that she was still desperately trying to get out.  _

_ “I won’t have a filthy pervert in my house,” Nathan turned, leaving Thomas in the street. The slamming of the door was subsequently followed by the sharp sound of someone being slapped.  _

_ Then, absolute silence.  _

_ Charles stared at the pitiful scene, at the bleeding child in the snow.  _

_ He felt powerless… bitterly powerless.  _

_ He turned, and looked at the fully grown Thomas by his side. But Thomas was now gone to be replaced by the image of his mother. They’d somehow melded into one another, become the same body and soul. As if Alice Barrow’s spirit lived on through her beloved son.  _

_ “It was always going to end this way,” Alice whispered. Her voice was like that of a wraith, skittering across blowing flat snow. “Always.”  _

****  
  


_ ~*~ _

Charles sucked in a breath of shock, eyes popping wide open. 

He was warm and naked in bed, a cobwebbed ceiling above him showing faint shadows of the moon still outside. Slightly achy in his bone, Charles rolled his head to the left to stare at his guide. 

Thomas Barrow, now fully grown and far away from his father’s merciless wrath, was fast asleep next to him. Charles did not know if Thomas had invaded his mind during the dream, or if it were the other way around. Somehow, mentally, they had come together and it had allowed Charles to see the root of Thomas’ misery. 

The violence of an evil man who ought to have loved him. 

With a soft hand, Charles reached up and tenderly tucked a stray whisp of black hair out of Thomas’ face. 

Deep in sleep, Thomas was untrouble by the evils of his father. Charles pulled him close, tucking Thomas into the crook of his neck so that his soft breaths feathered Charles’ aging skin. 

He resolved, in that moment, to never let Thomas be abused again.


	8. Guidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their night together, Charles and Thomas must deal with an ugly reminder of their past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for **choking and abduction**

When Charles awoke, it was to the sight of the slightest light from dawn creating ray through columns of dust. At first, he wondered how on earth his house had become so filthy, until he remembered that he was not in face in his own house. That he was not in his own bed. But he was in bed with someone. 

Rolling his head upon his pillow, Charles looked to the left to find Thomas curled up like a mouse and fast asleep. He reached out with a delicate hand, stroking his lover’s temple. In this moment so still and peaceful, Thomas almost looked like a child instead of a 35 year old man. 

He did not know what time it was, but he was willing to bet that they were cutting it close to being caught out. It would not do to raise suspicions with the other staff. 

As if opening a door, Charles gently pushed on Thomas’ mind. Darkness began to wake up with slight swirls of color and light, and then Thomas was opening his eyes. 

They blinked, and stared at one another for a few moments. Neither knew exactly what to say to the other. 

“We have to return to the abbey before the others wake up,” Charles whispered. 

Thomas blinked blearily, then nodded in a slow and pathetic way. He yawned, stretching like a cat with languid ease before staring back up at Charles again. 

He’d never seen Thomas so relaxed. 

**  
  
**

It was slightly humiliating to pick up his dirty clothes and put them back on. Charles kept glancing over to Thomas, noting how thin he was, how fluid and beautiful. The memories of the night before kept flashing back to Charles. Of all the things he’d done to Thomas. Of all the memories he’d seen. 

That night of fallen snow was lightyears away, but the scars of the wounds were still on the surface of Thomas’ mind. Of a mother whom he still loved. Of a father who still terrified him. Above all, the image of Alice Barrow breaking her own window to get out to her son kept replaying itself in his mind. That pale, jagged arm dripping with blood from broken glass, scrambling against cracked hardwood with peeled green paint. Her fingernails, blue at the edges from the frozen winter air. 

Charles stiffened, aware of a warm presence at the edge of his mind 

Thomas was watching him. 

“... I’m sorry,” Charles murmured, shrugging on his outer coat and donning his hat. 

“Don’t be,” Thomas said, doing the same. “It won’t change anything.” 

“She loved you very much,” Charles said. 

“Yes. I know.” 

**  
  
**

They walked out onto a crisp sparkling lawn, where the dew had frozen overnight to create micro crystals. In the far distance, a pair of roe deer were nibbling at the edge of the lawn. Walking up the hill and around the bend, they entered back out into the western courtyard where Jackdaw’s Castle held court upon a slight hill. 

As they passed, Thomas paused .

“Why’d they make this?” Thomas wondered, he ran a hand carefully over the crumbling stone. “It’s odd, isn’t it…” He looked to the left, back towards the abbey. 

“It is an odd piece. It’s a follie,” Charles agreed, “It was meant as a viewing platform for the abbey, a sort of miniature of the house if you will… I think it was built around 1743.” 

“Oh.” Thomas stepped back, and they continued on up towards the house. There was this odd little tension between them, nothing awful but certainly interesting. Thomas had a coy smile upon his plush lips, like he wanted to say something particularly naughty but knew that he shouldn’t. 

“You know…” Thomas drawled, glancing up at Charles demurely, “You were rather domineering last night.”

That was certainly a word for it. 

Filled with a sense of vigor and a spark of lust, Charles leaned in and pulled Thomas close as they walked. “Well, you’re quite the handful,” He murmured into Thomas’ ear. Thomas was practically grinning now, like a child. “But you keep me young, I must confess.” 

“Do I?” Thomas leered, “Good to know.” He pulled away from Charles, walking a tad bit faster ahead of him. The cheek! 

Determined to get his own in, Charles covertly reached out and grabbed at Thomas’ left arse cheek. Thomas yelped, jumping a bit and jerking around. 

“Dirty old man!” he chided, but he was still smiling. Charles raised both hands in a mocking form of defense. As soon as Thomas turned back around, Charles seized his chance, reaching forward to grab Thomas and pull him back into his arms. He wriggled like a worm, trying to get away, but he was laughing- it was all a game now. 

“Come here, you-” Charles growled; nothing seemed out of his grasp in that moment. He pulled Thomas close, and for a moment simply observed the sparkle in his deep blue eyes. It was simply magical, like he’d recaptured a moment from his youth. Leaning in, Charles pressed a chaste but sweet kiss to his waiting lips. It deepened on reflex, with Charles cupping the small of Thomas’ back so that Thomas was practically swooning. Beyond their little glen, a flock of geese took off overhead, squawking irritably at the display. The sky was a light pink, threatening the arrival of the dawn. Charles had never felt so at peace before. 

He pulled back, and found Thomas in a trance. Whatever Charles felt, Thomas felt it too; his mind was so anxious normally that peace seemed to be like a drug in his system. 

He shuddered when Charles let him go. 

“Come on, little one,” Charles urged. “We have to get back before the others realize we’re missing.” 

It took about ten minutes for them to walk all the way back to the servant’s area yard. The cobblestone was slick with dew beneath their feet; the back door was open, but Peter was nowhere to be found. A pile of freshly chopped wood was the only evidence that the hallboy had been there. They were cutting it close, and no mistake. 

Entering back into the basement of the abbey, Charles made a beeline for his office, unlocking it and letting Thomas in so that they could momentarily hide inside while Peter walked past with an empty wicker basket. Safe in the gloom, Charles turned on his desk lamp and checked his day planner to find that it was mercifully blank. With luck, they would be able to get upstairs and dressed before Andrew or Mr. Moseley were awake. 

“Upstairs with you-” Charles shrugged out of his jacket, taking Thomas as well and hanging them both up on the wall. “Wash as quick as you can.” 

“Our liveries are wrinkled,” Thomas complained. “We won’t have enough time to iron them out.” 

“We’ll use the spares,” Charles said, for there were several now unused liveries in the linen cupboard across the hall. “I’ll make the necessary excuses to the maids.” Thought what exactly those excuses would be, Charles could not say. 

**  
  
**

He was flying by the seat of his pants and enjoying every minute of it. 

Thomas and Charles both practically scampered to the main stairs, heading up fast before Peter could notice them from outside in the area yard. The new liveries had a mothy smell to them from being in a cupboard for so long, but Charles didn’t care. These were desperate times, and they would have to make do. Upstairs, they found the men’s side of the attic mercifully quiet. It was still too early for Andrew or Moseley, but the clock was ticking and every second was precious. Charles opened the bathroom door, shutting it after Thomas and locking it so that they could afford some privacy. They wouldn’t have time for two baths, they’d simply have to double up. 

“We have to be quick,” Charles said. He shed his livery, noting that there were marks from where it had been laying on the dusty floor all night. “We’ve only got about half an hour to spare before the others wake; we’ll need to wash quickly together and dress as fast as we can. I can excuse us, but not for long.” 

“Lie down with butlers, wake up with hallboys,” Thomas muttered under his breath, clearly annoyed that he’d had to get up an hour earlier than normal. 

They stripped naked, the pair of them barely sparing a glance for the other in their desperation to wash. Charles noted with a sting of guilt that Thomas’ lower arms were covered with dark and thick fleshy lines from where he’d cut his wrists with a razor. 

He recalled, almost with crystal clarity, that moment when Elsie had come running into his office, her face bloodless and her eyes wide. In the course of a second, Charles’ casual afternoon had been flipped completely on its head. 

Now, the idea of Thomas actually being successful with such a horrible thing made Charles want to be sick. He did not know what happened to sentinels when they lost their guides. Frankly, he did not want to find out. 

Thomas washed with speed, completely focused on his task. He nearly dropped the bar of soap twice, perched on the rim of the ancient bathtub across from Charles. Wet, slippery, and withdrawn, Thomas appeared to Charles in that moment as beautiful and dangerous as a siren. 

Thomas paused mid wash, noting that Charles was watching him. 

“What?” he asked playfully. 

“It’s just that you’re very beautiful,” Charles said. Thomas snorted in disbelief, and continued with his bath. 

~*~

They shaved off time at an unnervingly close record, but by the time that Peter was knocking on doors to rouse Mr. Moseley and Andrew, both Thomas and Charles were in their respective places looking no worse for the wear. In his study, Charles mulled over the proceedings of last night with a sly smile and a steaming cup of tea courtesy of Daisy. 

If he was honest with himself, well and truly honest, part of him could not help but think of the things he could do to Thomas when the lights were out and the world was asleep. He’d made love to four people in his life (only one of them a woman), and of them all Thomas was by far the most superior in his sensualities. Or perhaps it simply was Thomas’ connection as his guide that made things all the more delightful. He’d never been buggered, and he didn’t want to start now but he had been able to feel through Thomas’ senses the act of being buggered. 

No wonder people went to prison for it. It was delightful. 

A sudden knock at his door made Charles look up with jerk. He’d been so obsessed with dwelling on Thomas that he hadn’t noticed the time; it was almost time for the servant’s breakfast. 

The door opened to reveal Elsie, who beamed when she spotted him. 

“There you are!” Elsie said with delight. She took off her hat and pin, smiling as she gave him a gentle kiss upon the cheek. “You never came home last night. I was worried Thomas had drowned you in the lake.” 

Charles just grinned; if only Elsie could imagine the truth. 

“Well?” Elsie teased, nudging him playfully, “Did you settle it?” 

“All is well,” Charles promised her with a smile. 

“Good.” She was practically beaming with pride, her hands upon her hips. “I knew you could handle it. So what did he say?” 

“I had to come completely clean with him,” Charles explained. “Tell him everything. Even something I haven’t yet told you. Something I’ve only told his Lordship in total privacy.” 

“Oh my! Secrets galore,” Elsie perched upon his desk, curious. “Will you tell me or shall I weedle it out of Lord Grantham?” 

“What do I get for my secrets?” Charles asked. In response, Elsie leaned down and kissed him chastely upon the lips. A prize indeed! 

Smug in his seat, Charles leaned back and swiveled a little as he pondered on how to explain everything. “I confess, I’d only told Dr. Clarkson and Lord Grantham. It was something I intended to keep only to myself, but I found it impossible to do. It nearly told me mad till I figured it out-” He paused and glanced at Elsie. She was grinning from ear to ear. 

“Well?” she urged. 

“I can hear Thomas’ thoughts,” Charles confessed. 

Elsie was taken aback, sitting up straight as she regarded him with caution. “What? You’re joking! You must be-” 

“It’s true,” Charles swore. “I’ve been able to hear his thoughts since I awoke as a sentinel, and yesterday he finally heard mine. So our connection is complete it would seem.” 

“Is that why you’ve been acting so peculiarly when he hasn’t been saying anything?” Elsie wondered. 

“Oh trust me,” Charles snorted. “He’s been saying plenty in his head.” 

The mouth on that boy! 

“Well, I can’t fault him for that,” Elsie said. “I can hardly monitor what he thinks, now can I? And besides is that really fair when we all deserve a place to figure ourselves out?” She paused, musing over this newfound revelation. “Charlie, it’s absolutely remarkable. I’ve been reading every spare moment I can get about sentinels, but a mental connection like this is quite rare even so.” 

“It started off small,” Charles said. “I’d hear snippets of phrases, usually when he was angry or upset. But then I started seeing these weird mental images. What he might have been thinking about or longing for. Last night though… something remarkable happened. I think I actually managed to see what he was dreaming. Or at least, I experienced a very powerful memory. His mind is like a well that I can tap at will.” 

“Well you mustn’t harass him with it,” Elsie urged, now suddenly becoming fretful. “After all, Thomas is a private creature at the best of times. Just because you can hear his thoughts doesn’t mean that you ought to read his mind like a book.” 

Yes, that had been his initial mistake. 

“I confess, it baffles me.” Elsie said. “Can you give me an example of what you hear?”

Charles just smiled, closing his eyes. “Watch this,” He said. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Calling to him,” Charles said. 

_ Thomas,  _ Charles thought.  _ Come to my office.  _

For a moment, there was silence much like static upon a radio. Then? 

_ Coming,  _ he heard Thomas as if he were calling out from beyond a door. 

Charles opened his eyes and waited. A minute passed in silence, and then Thomas opened the door to Charles office to find Elsie there waiting for him. 

Elsie gaped in astonishment. “Amazing!” She cried out. 

“I told her we could hear each other’s thoughts,” Charles said, for Thomas looked baffled. “I thought I’d amuse her.” 

Thomas grinned, shutting the door to the hall. “Bit of a circus act, aren’t we.” 

“Don’t you start that now,” Elsie teased, standing up and beginning to groom Thomas’ curled collar. The spare liveries were always a bit frayed at the edges. “I’m glad that the pair of you have turned over a new leaf. So I expect you to start returning to our cottage at night. Am I clear?” 

“Yes Mrs. Hughes,” Thomas chuckled. 

“Good!” She was quite pleased with herself, and fetched through her handbag to pull out a folding notebook full of scribbled phrases. She tore off a sheet and handed it to Thomas for him to look over. “Now, I've got a few errands for you to run today after breakfast. Lady Edith’s wedding is being ironed out but there’s a few more things that I need from town, and I can’t spare Andy or Peter when we have so much silver and crystal to sort out.” 

She tapped at her torn page, “I want you to go and fetch all these things from town today, and mind that you watch out for Mr. Bakewell’s wagging tongue. That man’ll keep you there for an hour if he gets wind of gossip.” 

But Thomas’ mind was roaming. Images were flitting through Charles’ mind of the kiss they’d shared that morning while birds soared overhead. 

Thomas glanced at Charles. Charles winked at him. 

“Excuse me!” Elsie took Thomas’ pointed chin in hand, dragging him back down so that he could stare at her and not Charles. “No talking when I can’t hear it. Now did you get everything I said, or were you too busy arguing with Mr. Carson in your head?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Hughes,” Thomas said with a smile. 

“Mr. Bakewell?” 

“Won’t say more than I have to,” Thomas promised. 

“Good.” Elsie was quite satisfied. “Now, off you pop. I want you back by noon so you can help me go through the itinerary. Unfortunately, we'll have to compete with Lady Mary’s two weddings, and that won’t exactly be easy.” 

“Don’t worry, Lady Edith won’t be a wallflower anymore,” Thomas promised. He made his way to the door. 

_ Be safe,  _ Charles thought. 

Thomas paused, casting a glance over his shoulder.  _ I will,  _ he said. 

“Stop it!” Elsie cried out, but she was beaming. “I can’t hear it!” 

So Charles did as his wife bade. “Come back quickly,” he said. 

“Of course, Mr. Carson,” Thomas spoke aloud. With that, he turned and was gone. 

~*~

It had been unusual but not unpleasant to have breakfast with the others when five hours ago he’d been shagged by Carson against a cottage wall. 

Thomas had sat amongst them all, side by side with Bates and across the table from Mrs. Hughes. As he ate a few spoonfuls of sugary porridge, Thomas could not help but dwell on how wild the evening had been before. Suddenly, after taking Carson as a lover, the world seemed a lot more bearable than before. Had the toast ever tasted this good, or was it just his merry mood? Did Mrs. Hughes always look so beautiful, or was he simply doe eyed and dreaming. 

“You’re in a merry mood today,” Bates had sneered at him. 

“Perhaps I have something to be merry for” Thomas had replied cooly. Bates just rolled his eyes. 

“I’ll try not to read into that.” 

_ Bastard,  _ Thomas had thought irritably. 

_ Thomas…  _ he’d looked up to see Carson watching him with a gentle gaze. And just like that… all his anger was gone. 

**  
  
**

Now, it was around ten in the morning and Thomas was walking to the village with a wicker basket underneath his left arm. Part of him, no matter how small, had been heavily uncomfortable with last night. It wasn’t that he didn’t like being Carson’s lover, but there was nowhere to hide from the man and something inside of Thomas still liked the ability to run if things got dodgy. You couldn’t run from a sentinel. They were like a strobe light, revealing all of your flaws and imperfections. 

And the dream… oh the dream. 

In truth, he’d seen that scene in his head many times since it had happened. Usually, it was a night terror that Thomas awoke from in a sweat. Now it as something more… but he couldn’t say why. Was it because he’d now shared it with Carson? Was it because the one man who needed to see it most had seen it first hand? 

Carson had watched in horror as Thomas’ father had beat him senseless. Somehow, that knowledge soothed the beast of Carson’s earlier acts. 

As he entered Downton Village, Thomas felt like he was walking through a haze, but not an unfriendly one. He was simply awash with so many memories that he couldn’t think straight. He found himself wondering about his mother for the first time in thirty years, wondering if she was well or even alive? 

He doubted either was true. 

Entering Mr. Bakewell’s shop, Thomas tried to push the malaise thoughts aside to instead focus on the task at hand. There were many dried goods which needed to be ordered for Mrs. Patmore, not to mention a few items that ought to go back with him today. Nothing too heavy, but she was running low on a certain rubbing salt which apparently cured red meats. 

The minute Thomas got to the counter, Mr. Bakewell promptly burst into a round of chatter. 

“So is it true?” Mr. Bakewell asked eagerly, “That Lady Edith is finally getting married? And to a Marquis of all people?” 

“Mm,” Thomas just replied with a tight lipped smile, casually tapping the side of his nose in silent explanation. 

“Oh, you needn’t worry about me,” Mr. Bakewell said in a rush. “I’ve got a mind like a steel trap.” 

This was a bit of an overstatement, but Thomas wasn’t about to alert the man to it. He flipped through the book of elite confectionaries, looking in particular for the marzipan figures that Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore desired. Amazing how a bit of sugar could cost so much! 

As Thomas finished one book and silently gestured for the next, he noticed a shadowy figure in the window. 

He paused, dread filling his stomach when a flash of a face appeared from beyond the window pane. 

It was the man from Turpin’s. 

The man was staring at Thomas hungrily through the window, though any fool passing on the street might have imagined he was instead salivating over the hanging dried goods. In a flight of panic, Thomas ducked away from the counter to hide behind a shelf full of baking powders and spices. Mr. Bakewell was quite confused. 

“Are you alright, Mr. Barrow?” Mr. Bakewell asked. 

“Fine,” Thomas promised, “Just remembered we need some… uh-” He turned, and noticed that there was a jar of peppermint oil sitting upon the shelf. He took it, “Peppermint oil.” 

“I’ll put it on your tab,” Mr. Bakewell said cheerily. Thomas hoped Mrs. Patmore would have use for it in any sense. 

He returned to the counter, stepping nervously around the shelf, and sighed with relief when he found the man gone from the window. Mr. Bakewell was oblivious, merrily writing up Thomas’ check. 

**  
  
**

Upon leaving Mr. Bakewell’s, Thomas paused upon the threshold to look both ways down the high street. It seemed that the man had vanished, but Thomas couldn’t say to where or why. Unnerved, he quickly headed across the street to Pruce and Company, a store which sold fabric in massive bolts along with lace and all the bits or bods you could ever need. Mrs. Pruce, the owner, was a good friend of Mrs. Hughes, and had over the years put away a tidy sum simply by providing the abbey with linens for both the upstairs and the downstairs. 

Upon entering her shop, Thomas gave Mrs. Pruce a small smile and a short wave. She beckoned him over at once, eager to see his list of desires. 

She was babbling, but Thomas wasn’t listening. His mind was still far away, on the man from Turpins. How in the hell had he come to be at Downton? And how had he found Thomas? 

Had he been looking for him? 

Thomas shuddered at the idea, returning his attention to Mrs. Pruce who was currently gushing over the idea of dripping Edith in Queen Anne’s lace. 

“Of course, Lady Sybil was always the supreme beauty of the family,” Mrs. Pruce mused, “But Lady Edith is a darling girl and I’m so delighted to be given a chance to help dress her for her big day. Finally! Justice has been restored to the land!” 

Thomas didn’t know much about justice, but he was certainly glad that Lady Edith had found someone to love, an’ no mistake. Mrs. Pruce stuffed Thomas’ wicker basket with roll upon roll of lace, delighted by her good fortune. 

But as Thomas flipped another page in Mrs. Pruce’s ancient catalogue to examine the particulars of bridal veils, the sudden stench of whiskey made Thomas bristle. 

He looked up, and jumped with fright. 

The man from Turpins was standing right next to him. When had he snuck in!? 

“Didn’t know you lived in Downton,” The man said. His speech was slurred, his tongue thick in his mouth. It was clear that he was drunk, at ten in the morning of all times. 

Thomas bristled at the stench of whiskey, taking a clear step to the left in order to gain some space. “Please step away from my person.” He warned. 

Mrs. Pruce was far from pleased, frumpy with indignation at the idea of a drunk in her shop. “If you both my customer, I’ll have you taken out by the police!” 

The man just leered at her, unimpressed with her fury. “I mean it!” She added haughty, a finger up and wagging. 

“Quit your bitchin’!” The man cursed. Thomas glared at him, allowing all the wrath he could muster to fill up his face. it clearly put the man off, for he backed up a few paces before stumbling back outside. 

Mrs. Pruce shuddered in disgust. “Wretched creature,” She complained. She turned back to Thomas. “I’m terribly sorry dear. Are you all finished?” 

“That’s everything,” Thomas promised. “But expect me to return eventually. This will be a bit of a todo before it’s over.” 

“Of course,” Mrs. Pruce assured him, all gushing tones and sweet smiles. “This is such an exciting day for us all. Finally the last chick leaves the nest! I’ll order more lace just in case we need adjustments, but take all that back today so that Anna can get started. Heavens! Imagine her making a wedding dress in her state.” 

But Thomas wasn’t paying attention. His heart was still hammering over the idea of nearly being touched by the man from Turpins. Thomas didn’t even know his name; how had he found him in Downton? Had he come searching, or was it all just some awful accident.

He wanted to get back to Carson, back to the abbey where he was safe behind stone walls and locked doors. 

“Oh-!” Mrs. Pruce’s voice of surprise brought him back to the present; she was shuffling through a pile of catalogues, only to hand him a glossy new one with a dainty woman upon the cover. She was holding an enormous spool of yarn, which had been comically drawn to the size of a dustbin. 

“This is for Mrs. Hughes!” Mrs. Pruce said. “It’s our new catalogue. Make sure that Anna and Ms. Baxter get a good look at it too.” 

“Right.” Thomas stuck it in his wicker basket. “Thank you! That’ll be all!” 

“Cheerio!” Mrs. Pruce said merrily, returning her attention to her many spools of lace and yarn. Thomas left, determined to get back to the abbey as soon as possible. 

~*~

It was almost lunchtime when it happened. 

Charles was watching over the family in the library, as Lady Grantham worked on an embroidery project and Lord Grantham wrote a letter at his desk. Both were speaking on Lady Edith’s upcoming wedding with glee, so that every so often Charles would take notice of a detail that he would have to squirrel away to Elsie. 

It ought to have been a moment of calm, but everything was about to change for the worse. 

“I wonder if it would be too terribly tacky to reuse some elements of Mary’s second wedding?” Lady Grantham mused. Lord Grantham sighed, rolling his eyes at the idea. 

“Hasn’t Edith suffered enough where that is concerned?” He asked. 

“I’m not saying she hasn’t!” Lady Grantham said at once, hands up in slightest defense, “But this is going to be an extremely expensive wedding as it is, and Mary only got married in July. We were going to use some tablecloths and centerpieces, but she and Henry said no. So why not just let Edith have them? It’ll take off some expenses at the very least, and no one will ever know they weren’t originally for her.” 

“No one but Edith, you mean,” Lord Grantham corrected. 

Lady Grantham was dismayed, looking to Charles for support. “Carson, am I being terribly unfair?” 

“Not unfair, M’lady, no-” he assured her at once. “May I advise that we-” 

But before he could insist that perhaps the tablecloths could be modified to suit Lady Edith’s tastes, he was suddenly seized by a heart wrenching pain that grabbed at his throat and would not let him go. 

For a second, he thought he was about to suffer another heart attack. 

“Carson?” 

He raised a hand to signal for silence, his eyes wide and his pulse pounding. 

He was consumed by a terror that was not his own, his brain working overtime to process a jumble of mixed signals from what was surely miles away. 

He did not know how he knew it, but he knew implicitly that Thomas was in trouble. 

~*~

The walk back to Downton had started off so simply. Now? 

Now, Thomas was up to his eyeballs in trouble, and couldn’t see a way out. 

He’d started off alone out of the main village square, bypassing a few farmers on their way to market and nothing more. But then, about half a mile up the main road, Thomas had heard the sound of someone stumbling behind him, and had looked over his shoulder to see that the man from Turpin’s was following him from a distance. 

Panicked, Thomas had at once began to make greater haste down the road. The man had sped up as a result, until finally it was clear that Thomas was running to avoid him and the man was not letting him be. 

“You an’ I got off on the wrong foot,” The man complained, breath labored from the fast pace. 

“Doubt that,” Thomas snapped, walking faster still. 

“Ey, ey-!” The man began to run after him to make up for lost ground.” Just let me talk to you-!” 

“I don’t want to talk to you!!” 

~*~

“Carson, what’s wrong?” Lady Grantham asked fretfully. She’d risen from the sofa, leaving her embroidery behind. Lord Grantham had left his desk. 

“Thomas-” Charles could barely make out the words, the stitch in his chest tight from terror. “Thomas is in danger-” 

“Danger?” Lord Grantham repeated, confused. 

“Danger how?” Lady Grantham demanded. 

**  
  
  
  
  
**

_ Running, leaves and dirt beneath him, the road to the abbey before him. Charles could see the spires gleaming from between the trees. Thomas was close, but not close enough. Behind him, a monster. A man or a beast, Charles could not tell. It was all too muddled, all too raw.  _

Charles could not grasp where he was; part of his body was standing in the abbey, part of his body was running like a man possessed up the main road towards home. Part of him was Charles, part of him was Thomas. Part of him was safe, part of him was in grave danger. 

“He’s- being- chased-” Charles had to grit out each word, his breathing wild. 

“Focus,” Lord Grantham urged him. “Who is chasing him?” 

“There’s-”  _ Thomas had changed directions, he knew he was too far from the abbey. Now he was running for Charles and Elsie’s cottage.  _ “He’s running for my house- he knows he’s too far away from the abbey to make it. He’s frightened of-” 

_ Thomas tripped.  _

_ The basket went flying, with lace soaring through the air like an unspooling cloud. He crashed into the dirt, the world momentarily going black-  _

_ A man’s face filled up Carson’s vision, full of rage and lust. The man from the club, the man from Turpins-!  _

_ Thomas’ voice was in his ears. “GET OFF ME! HELP! SOMEONE HELP!”  _

Charles crashed to the floor, his knees giving out from underneath him. Thomas was being choked by the man from Turpin’s, god only knows how far away- and though Charles had utterly nothing wrong with his throat, he somehow couldn’t breath. 

“Carson!” Lord Grantham’s voice seemed so far away. Lady Grantham’s hands were upon his shoulders, trying to hold him down to the earth. It felt like the entire universe was spinning away in his fear- 

“Wh-” 

But Charles could not lay here on the floor. Like a man possessed, his limbs acted without his command. He staggered up from the floor, walking blindly from the library. Walking. Running. Moving. 

He knew he was moving, but he was not looking out of his own eyes. He was staring out of Thomas’, seeing the world go gray as the oxygen was choked from his brilliant brain. Flashes of life were sparking past him, tiny memories triggered by some desperate desire to keep living- 

_ Dancing with Daisy in the servants hall.  _

_ A young man Charles did not know, his eyes glazed over from the effects of Mustard gas.  _

_ Lady Sybil sipping tea upon her favorite chair in the library.  _

_ James Kent, laying asleep in his own bed. A group of violent men underneath a bridge.  _

_ A chair with leather straps upon its arms and legs.  _

_ A bathtub.  _

_ The groundskeeper’s hut, steam creeping up its frozen window panes.  _

And suddenly Charles was sucked back into his own body, nearly tripping over his own two feet. He found himself outside, on the lawns of Downton, running towards the garage where Mr. Branson and Mr. Talbot kept their most precious cars. Mr. Branson himself was lollygagging around outside, seemingly daydreaming while he polished an old brass headlamp. 

Charles all but terrified him, popping out of thin air to grab him by the wrists. 

“-Ah-!” Mr. Branson yelped in fright, dropping the headlamp into the gravel at his feet. 

“The car-!” Charles felt like every word was being pushed out of his mouth by a surge of nausea. He was going to be sick or faint, probably at the same time. 

“Start the car- the car-!” Charles dragged Mr. Branson to the driver side door. There was a moment where he seemed ready to duck and run, but something honest in him made him stay. 

“Why” Tom asked. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?” 

“Drive to the village-!” Mr. Branson was already opening the door. Charles stumbled over to the other side. “Do it now! Go!” 

Mr. Branson did not ask twice. He turned on the key and slammed his foot against the gas. 

The wind was blowing through Charles’ hair, but his spirit was flying faster. There was a massive pull in his chest, yanking him straight out of his body so that he was suddenly soaring over the skies of Downton, his heart racing as he tried to connect with his guide. 

And then, as if he were being yanked back to earth by a rope, Charles’ vision went crashing to earth through the thicket of trees that lined either side of the road to Downton. There, hanging like a chandelier over the sene, he saw Thomas laying on his back being choked by the man from the club. 

_ It’s him,  _ Thomas thought  _ From the club. It’s him. It’s- _

But then everything went black. 

For a moment, Charles knew nothing save for the god awful headache pounding away in his mind. It was like he had no oxygen. Like he was the one being choked out. 

And then it all came rushing back to him, his head pounding horribly as he groaned along the leather lining of Mr. Branson’s car. He blearily opened his blood shot eyes only to find that he was back in the car rushing along at lane to Downton Village. Charles struggled, a hand waving as he reached to grab Mr. Branson’s shoulder. He squeezed it hard. 

“Stop it- stop- STOP THE CAR!” 

Mr. Branson slammed on the breaks. Charles was smacked hard against the dashboard, and for a moment lay crumpled there until the car finally pittered to a stop. 

He almost wanted to vomit, but help it in by sheer force of will. Stumbling from the car with sweaty hands, Charles stared out at the long stretch of road to the village, the trees on either side…. 

All of it was bleak, desolate, lifeless. 

All of it was quiet. 

Thomas’ voice, Thomas presence, had left a gaping hole in his mind. 

“Carson, you’re frightening me,” Mr. Branson said. He spoke like a child, like a man terrified for the first time in a long time. 

Charles looked left and right, the cold English wind blowing through his sweaty hair. There was a moment of silence, as he listened in vain for Thomas’ voice. 

He heard nothing. 

“... Oh god no,” Charles whispered. 


	9. Sticky Fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles searches for Thomas, only to discover something wholly unexpected in the forests of Grantham county.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for **fire, attempted rape, and minor character death**

In the chaos and panic that followed Charles’ attempt to stop Thomas’ death, a great deal happened without Charles being mentally cognizant enough to follow. After being attached to Thomas for so long, mentally, having him ripped away was like peeling back a layer of his muscle and skin only to bleed out on the ground. 

Tom had left Charles on the side of the road, driving to the village to inform the police. When he returned, he’d been followed by several police wagons, lead by Sergeant Willis, who had proceeded to spread out around the area where Charles had last felt Thomas presence. Tom had then decided to drive back to the abbey to pick up Lord Grantham and Elsie; apparently while at the police station, he’d rang them and informed them of the events. 

Charles had found the scene like a bloodhound on a trail, only to find it was devoid of Thomas save for an upturned wicker basket with fresh lace now dirtied in the leaves. There was the salt Mrs. Patmore had wanted, along with a new catalogue from Mrs. Pruce’s. It felt so raw and vulnerable, like he were staring at the scene of a murder instead of an abduction. Charles could smell Thomas, could sense him so obviously that he thought at any moment Thomas might pop out from around a tree to shout ‘surprise! Fooled you!’. 

But no surprise came. 

Tom had returned with Lord Grantham and Elsie, both of whom had been ashened faced. Upon finding the scene, Lord Grantham had let out a groan of dismay; Elsie’s bottom lip had quivered. 

“God in heaven,” Lord Grantham murmured. “What happened?” 

“This is the exact scene I saw,” Charles declared, pointing with a trembling finger to the ground. “He was being choked right here. He kept saying ‘It’s him from the club’. He knew his attacker. I knew his attacker! It was this awful, evil man-!” 

He tried to catch a breath, but felt weak in his chest. Elsie was trying to hold him, but for the first time in his life, Charles did not want the touch. He did not want anything, save for him to find Thomas and quickly. 

“Well he’s not here now,” Sergeant Willis carefully fingered the dirty lace in the leaves. With a well seasoned hand, he began to point out patterns. 

“There was a struggle-” Sergeant Willis even twisted his body a bit, as if he were pretending to be Thomas while sitting upon his heels. 

“When the assault stopped, the attacker took Barrow and drug him away by the heels-” Sure enough, two tracks could be seen in the dirt leading towards the east. “That’s the way he went.” 

“What’s out there?” Elsie asked. 

“Old farmland,” Lord Grantham replied. “Miles of it. Barrow could be anywhere by this point.” 

Thomas! Charles shouted in his mind, as loud and strong as he could. Thomas answer me! 

But there was nothing save for silence. For all the good it had done, Charles might have screamed at a brick wall. 

“I can’t hear him,” Charles admitted. “I keep calling to him but he just won’t answer.” 

“Don’t panic,” Lord Grantham reached out, putting a gentle hand upon his shoulder. “Assume nothing. We have hunting dogs. We’ll release them and see if they can track his scent. But us standing here does very little good-” 

Scent…. 

Scent. 

Charles took a deep breath, then another through his nose. He couldn’t smell Thomas but he could smell peppermint. Why? 

In the back of his head, he heard Lord Grantham say “Let’s return to the house.” 

“No.” 

It was the first time that Charles had ever in his life refused a Crawley anything.   
It didn’t feel good. 

He looked up and around to see Lord Grantham and Elsie staring at him confusedly. They’d probably thought he’d suffered a stroke, to say ‘no’ so brazenly. 

“I can smell peppermint,” Charles said. “I don’t know why-” 

“You can?” Willis was bewildered, almost amazed even. “That’s amazing!” 

“Amazing?Why amazing?” Lord Grantham asked. 

“Because of this, M’lord,” Willis pulled a receipt from the wicker basket. A look showed that it was from Bakewells, citing all the things that Thomas had ordered for Mrs. Patmore. 

At the very bottom was the item: Peppermint Oil. 

“Peppermint oil?” Elsie wondered. “Why would he buy that? Mrs. Patmore didn’t need that-” 

“Who cares why he bought the damnable thing, it’s like a magnet for my nose,” Charles declared. He crouched on all fours, taking a long sniff at the leaves- the peppermint was going in the same direction as the imprints of Thomas’ heels. 

“Where are you going?” Elsie begged. 

“To find Thomas!” Charles replied. “Return to the house, I’ll take it from here.” 

“I’ll have my men spread out in the fields,” Willis added. “The sooner we find him, the better.” 

It might have been more polite to sit and wait for Sergeant Willis to give him leave, but Charles was a man possessed. That damning scent of peppermint was starting to drive him mad without Thomas around to relax his senses. Soon enough, he was by himself in the great expanse of Grantham County, sniffing every tree and twig he passed to see if the peppermint was nearby. As if to add insult to injury, Charles kept getting sidetracked by other smells. Urine, musk of roe, and fecal matter peppered his senses, making him want to hurl. When would it end? 

For about an hour or two, Charles walked alone. Every so often, the sun began to creep across the horizon until the sky was painted pink and red. For a moment he began to fear that something truly awful was happening to Thomas… by why couldn’t Charles hear his voice? 

The worst, the absolute worst thing that he could imagine wasn’t death. Death was simple and quick. Death could only happen once. 

Rape, on the other hand… it was enough to make any good natured Englishman go cold with fear and revulsion. 

Yet even as Charles began to spiral with the panic of what that fiend might be doing with Thomas’ unconscious body, a horrible shooting pain exploded in his head! 

“Gya-” Charles collapsed to the ground, hands cupping his throbbing temples. What in the devil-?! 

His brain was slowly beginning to reboot, as if it had shut down without its consent and been forced to restart. The pain in his mind seceded, but was replaced with something duller like a cold ache on a chilly day. His throat burned like fire; his mouth felt dry and hot. 

And then, just when he thought that he was surely going insane, he heard it. 

Help. 

It was tiny, it was weak, it was terrified.   
It was Thomas. 

Charles looked up, nearly putting a crick in his neck from the shock of it all. He staggered back to his feet, looking left and right; he could see nothing save for the outstretched woods thinning to cold and barren fields. 

He ran for it. 

I’m coming! Charles thought as loudly as he could, putting all his strength into his words. I’m trying to find you. Where are you? 

I’m tied up in a barn, Thomas thought. 

A barn-! 

Charles staggered to a halt as he burst through the tree line. There were, unfortunately, many barns both large and small spread out across the valleys of Yorkshire. Some were populated with animals, some had bales of hay in the yard. Perhaps Thomas’ ability to describe the barn from the inside might be able to help Charles figure out which one he was hiding in. The smell of peppermint was becoming faint. 

Can you see any windows? Charles thought Any way into the outside world? 

A tiny bit. I can see the sky through an open hayloft, Thomas thought. 

open hayloft. Right. 

Charles looked left, and saw a barn several hundred yards away with its hayloft open. It hade bales of straw stacked all around the side. He ran for it, nearly tripping over a hidden fox hole as he went. 

He could not smell the peppermint anymore. 

Is he there? Charles asked. What if he was about to walk into a situation with a mad man? 

No. But I’m on a mattress. 

Charles could sense the terror in Thomas’ voice, which for some reason seemed to be pulling him away from the barns and back towards the forest. Was it a rouse, or was it his senses trying to warn him that he was going the wrong way? 

Stay calm, Charles urged him. Don’t make any noise. 

Perhaps, thinking Thomas still unconscious, the man would leave him be. Charles didn’t want to bet on it, though. 

But as soon as Charles urged Thomas to be calm, it felt like Thomas vanished from his mind again. Desperate to find his guide, Charles reached the first barn with the open hayloft to throw an ancient door open It groaned ominously upon rusted hitches, but only revealed a group of cows pleasantly munching on hay. 

They looked at him quizzically, as if he were a nuisance during their well deserved rest. 

Do you see cows? Charles asked.   
“Thomas!” He called aloud. 

Can you hear me? Charles asked again when no answer came. 

No cows. Thomas thought. This place is ancient, it looks like no one’s lived here for a long time. Everything is dusty and broken down… I can’t hear you. 

Clearly this was not the barn. Charles closed the door again, furious at his own incompetence. Now was not the time to be slipping up! 

This isn’t the barn, Charles thought. He began to make his way to the other barn only to stop when he realized that two men were already inside. They were young, clearly brothers, and were in the process of unloading a cart full of horse feed from a wagon lead by an exhausted looking mule. 

They were the best shot Charles had. 

He made a beeline for the two boys, aware that he must look a state with dirtied knees and a frenzied expression. One of them even took a step back, wary of his approach. 

“Excuse me, young man!” Charles raised a hand in sharp greeting. “My name is Charles Carson, I am the butler to his Lordship, the Earl of Grantham. One of my footman was recently abducted from this area by a criminal. Did you happen to see a body being dragged today? It would have been a man about your age that was unconscious.” 

The brothers looked at each other, quite surprised. 

“No!” Said the first, with a heavy Yorkshire accent. “We haven’t seen nothin’ like that, sir.” 

Thomas had said the barn was ancient… could it be that there was a barn they knew of that fit the type? 

“We have reason to suspect the criminal took my footman to a dilapidated barn,” Charles said. “It would be ancient, broken down, but big enough to hold a hayloft. Can you think of any barn in the area that would fit the type.” 

The second brother mulled it over for a second, then snapped his fingers and looked to his sibling. 

“Ey’ what about that old Norbury lot?” 

“That’s true,” The first said, turning back to Carson. “If you head back to the woods, go Northeast for about a mile and you’ll hit a farm that used to be run by a family called Norbury. They haven’t lived here for a good fifty years now, but their barn’s still there. S’haunted though.” 

“That’s not true,” The second complained, “Stop tellin’ tales.” 

“S’true!” The first defended. “There’s an evil mans spirit that haunts the loft. I’ve seen him-” 

But Charles didn’t have time to listen to this nonsense. It seemed that the Norbury farm was his best option for finding Thomas and quickly. He would simply have to take their word for it. 

“Thank you,” Charles cut the brothers off mid-argument. “You may very well be responsible for the saving of a life.” 

“Here-!” The first brother seemed eager to help. “Why not take our mare, Thula? She’ll carry you faster than you can walk. If it’s all bad as that, you won’t want to dawdle.” 

In the corner of the barn was a massive draft horse with a dapple cream coat, her head bowed to drink from a deep but dirty trough. As the first brother approached, she lifted her head in surprise, her ears perked.

“C’mon, Thula!” The brother urged, taking her by the reigns and leading her along. She went dutifully, clearly a good mare that was obedient to her master. The brother offered the reigns to him. 

“Put in a good word for us to his lordship!” The brother tipped his threadbare newscap to Charles. “We’re two months behind on rent. Our father’s ill-” 

“I’ll pass along your message,” Charles put his foot in the stirrup, lifting himself upon Thula’s mighty back So enormous was she that Charles’ head nearly touched the top of the barn door while astride her. “Thank you for your kindness, Mr-?” 

“Williams!” The second brother reached up to shake Mr. Charles’ hand. “We’re the Williams family of the West Patch. Bring her home safely Mr. Carson!” 

“She is in good hands!” Charles assured them, before snapping the reigns and steering Thula to the Northeast back towards the woods. 

Her gate was much more than Charles could have ever handled upon his own two feet. In a minute he was back up the hill and swallowed amongst the wood. 

The smell of peppermint returned tenfold, leading Charles in the same direction as the brother’s had given. Thula cantered through the wood, her enormous hairy hooves thundering beneath Charles as they went even deeper. This part of the forest felt wild, like no honest man had lived there in a century. But there were tiny trails on the ground, a sign that someone had been walking along these woods, whoever they were. 

I don’t think anyone’s been here for a while, Thomas thought. A sudden, powerful fear swept through Charles, pulling him towards the Northeast. Now he was almost sure it was the Norbury farm! 

Why do you say that? Charles asked. 

Because… Even in his thoughts, Thomas was petrified. There’s a dead body in the corner. 

Charles ought to have been frightened senseless at the thought. Here was the ugly proof that this fiend was a killer and would not hesitate to strike his guide down. But at the same time, Thomas’ fear was a lure to Thomas, pulling Charles in with all the strength of a line that had hooked a fish in a river. The smell of peppermint was everywhere- he knew that he was heading in the right direction now! 

Far ahead in the distance was a clearing. It was his last, and best shot. 

Mr. Carson, I can hear him walking back, Thomas thought, a terror ringing in Charles’ ears. Calm- be calm- 

Don’t be calm! Charles begged with haste. Your fear is like a beacon to me, leading me to you. Show me the world through your eyes! Lead me to you! 

And so, just as he’d done last night, Thomas opened his eyes to Charles and allowed him to see through his mind. 

~*~

The sound of boots walking upon rotting wood was coming closer. 

The aroma of a rotting carcass nearby was pungent in his nose. Above him, all Thomas could see was the rotting rafters of the roof of a barn. His hands and feet were bound behind his back, hogtying him so that his shoulder blades were pinched together. He lay upon a rotting mattress on the floor, and so was given a peculiar view of a room that looked like the nest of a ferret. Bits and bods from all over the world had been crammed amongst dirty linens, old clothes, and rotting pillows were stuffed one upon the other, trying to keep the winter cold out and failing miserably. 

Thomas’ throat was on fire, stinging with each breath his took. He tried to swallow, but found it next to impossible. He tried to speak, but it came out as a weak croak. He coughed, groaned, and sucked up a tiny bit of saliva to try and swallow again. This time it worked, but barely. 

The owner of the boots appeared, coming up a broken staircase to reveal the awful man from Turpins. His greasy hair was pulled back in a ponytail, his yellow teeth crooked in a smile. 

It made Thomas wanted to vomit. 

“Hey, you’re awake!” The man had the audacity to look pleased, “I brought you something to drink. Know you like Fullers-” The man showed a dusty bottle, uncorked. 

Don’t drink anything he gives you, Thomas heard Carson think. His voice was getting stronger in Thomas’ mind. He was getting closer. 

“Oh yeah-!” Thomas jittered, his teeth chattering both in cold and fear. “Why don’t I just guzzle down some poison! That’d make your day real easy wouldn’t it?” He coughed and spat on the mattress; there was blood in his saliva. His voice was still too weak to be truly threatening. 

“S’not poison,” The man was slightly affronted, and lifted the beer bottle to his chapped lips to take a small sip. “See? Token of good faith!” 

He grinned at Thomas; his teeth were blackened with rot. Thomas wanted to hurl. 

“Token of good faith my arse!” Thomas cursed, wriggling in vain upon the filthy mattress. If only these bonds would give just an inch! “I’m tied up on a mattress! You choked me out and stole me here! There’s no good faith between us!” 

A flash of insight into Carson’s mind- a dilapidated barn covered in vines- a broken hayloft door hanging on by one hinge. 

Thomas looked up at the hayloft.   
The door was hanging on by one hinge. 

This has to be it! Carson was thinking triumphantly. Their eyes were one in the same. Their vision was shared. 

“They’re coming for you!” Thomas spat, “Your time has run out you bastard!” 

“Look-” The man was so delusional that he didn’t seem to realize the end was nigh. He crouched down upon knee, bringing his lantern close so that the light shined painfully into Thomas’ eyes. “I just wanna talk to you. That’s all. I don’t wanna hurt you. You’re too pretty-” 

He reached out, and petted Thomas’ cheek, rubbing it with his dirty hands. 

“CARSON HELP!” Thomas screamed as loud as he possibly could, praying that Carson could hear him. He could taste blood in the back of his throat. 

For some reason, Thomas heard a horse whinny. It sounded unnervingly close. Why?   
The man seemed to hear it too, jerking back as if shocked. For whatever reason, the sound of the horse had scared him. 

“I told you to stay dead!” The man shouted over his shoulder into the dusty darkness of the barn below. Who the hell was he talking to? The pile of bones in the corner? Thomas could make sense of nothing. 

He heard the horse again. 

Instead of taking his moment to try his luck with Thomas again, the man became even more incensed. 

“Die!” The man shouted to the darkness. He drew out a pistol from his belt, that looked as old and rusted as the barn. He fired six shots into the dark. “Die you stupid horse!” 

“CARSON!” Thomas screamed again. “CARSON WHERE ARE YOU?!” 

“I’m here!” Came the faint reply from down below.   
Carson had found him. He was saved. 

Thomas wriggled and writhed, flipping off of the mattress to crawl upon the ground like a worm. Without meaning to, Thomas kicked over the oil lamp that had been serving as the man’s only light. The oil spilled, and with it came a wave of fire! 

The man panicked, backing up rapidly trying to get away from the spreading flames. He was not the only one. Thomas was still tied up, and in serious danger of being burned alive should he not find a way out! 

Fire!! Thomas thought in a panic. The barn is catching on fire! Help me! 

He heard the sound of thundering below. He could not tell if it was hooves or feet. Why did he keep hearing a horse? Was there really some phantom beast below tormenting his kidnapper. But then, just as Thomas feared he might be swallowed whole by the flames, a dark shape from below rose up, staggering upon rotting steps to reveal himself through the smoke. 

Carson! 

Thomas’ kidnapper took off, no doubt sensing the end was near. But Carson grabbed him mid-flight, and the pair began to struggle even as Thomas inched his way upon the floor to get away from the rapidly spreading fire. 

“Lemme go!” The man screamed, “Lemme go!”  
So Carson gave the man exactly what he wanted. 

He let go, causing the man’s violent wriggling to make him stagger and sway. Unbalanced, the man screamed as he fell through the hayloft window, his back bowed and his fall head first. There was a sickening crunch, and the man’s screams were unnervingly silenced. But danger was still near! 

“The lamp!!” Thoma shrieked, rolling several times to put out fires that were inching up his trouser leg. “Watch the lamp!!” 

Carson paid no mind to the fuming oil lamp, instead taking a rusted scythe from a rotting hook on the wall to undo Thomas’ binds. Freed at last from his prison, Thomas sprang to his feet and away from the fire. 

But the flames were eating away at the decrepit wood like they were petrol, burning hotter and higher. Where before Carson had been able to make his way up the stairs to the third floor of the barn, now their retreat was cut off by a wall of fire. 

“We’re doomed-” Thomas feared their death would be a grisly and painful one. But where he expected the worst, Carson demanded the best. Like a beast, Carson began to tear at the crumbling walls of the barn with both hands. Rotting floorboards fell apart like mush revealing a cascade of smouldering insects. Beyond that- light! 

Thomas helped, kicking out at the newly made hole to widen it for the both of them. Down below was a rotting filthy hay stack that was full of rats, wriggling and screeching from the fire. 

“Oh like hell, I’ll take the fire-!” Thomas would rather burn than jump into a pile of plague infested-

But suddenly, a pair of fierce bear arms grabbed him tight around the chest. 

“No!” Thomas shrieked, even as Carson hauled him to the hole in the wall. “Don’t you dare-!”   
He dared. 

Carson leapt from the burning building, taking Thomas unwillingly with him. They plummeted three stories, with Thomas kicking and screaming all the way. 

“CARSON!” Thomas howled in indignation. 

They crashed into the stinking hay stack, sliding through a pile of rat poop to land on their bottoms in sludge. 

There was a horse, pacing and whining before them. She looked terrified of the flames and rats; Thomas did not blame her. Not twenty feet away lay the body of Thomas’ kidnapper, still and silent in the dirt. His neck was bent at an awkward angle. 

“G’ya-!” Thomas struggled as a rat crawled up his leg. Carson grabbed the rodent and threw it to the side. “Get it off, get it off!” 

“It’s off!” Carson snapped, as if aggravated Thomas would care about a rat of all things. He took Thomas by the arm, pulling him to the horse. “Come on, we have to get out of here-” 

“Whose horse is this?!” 

“I borrowed her-” 

“From who!? Where are we going?!” 

“Will you stop questioning me and get up-” Thomas was tugged until place behind Carson, who took the reigns only to snap them hard against the beasts neck. 

“Ride, Thula!” Charles cried out. “Ride!” 

The horse did as she was bade, rearing and whinnying to turn back towards the Southwest. She began to gallop, with Thomas holding tight to Carson lest he accidentally jiggle off in the saddle. 

Behind them they left nothing save for the smouldering carcass of a haunted barn.


	10. The Age of Invention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles returns to the abbey with Thomas, and learns the truth about the man from Turpins.   
> Meanwhile, Elsie learns something interesting about her husband.

In a triumphant scene straight from Camelot, Charles had ridden back to the Williams estate to drop off Thula and return Thomas to the abbey. He was wobegon, slightly in shock from the traumatic experience he’d just endured. They didn’t have to walk far; the Williams brothers were kind enough to offer then a ride on their wagonette back to the abbey. On the main road, Charles was able to flag down passing policemen who were still looking for Thomas in the forest. Word spread quickly, reaching Sergeant Willis who then took his own motorcar to intercept Charles and Thomas halfway back to the abbey so that they could instead ride with him. The Williams brothers bid them farewell, and left with the promise of good faith that Charles would relay their struggles to Lord Grantham. Dr. Clarkson was summoned, Thomas was ushered through the servant’s area, and now a large group sat cloistered around the fireplace in the servants hall. 

Thomas was in his favorite armchair, being seen by Dr. Clarkson who carefully patched up a few cuts upon his face and hands. The real concern was the massive black bruise at his throat and collarbone. 

“He nearly strangled you,” Dr. Clarkson declared, carefully tilting Thomas’ neck left and right to better observe the bruises in the light of the fire. “You’ll simply have to be easy on your throat until a week has passed at least.” 

Thomas glaced at Charles miserable. 

_ What about my bowtie?  _ Thomas thought. 

_ We’ll handle it,  _ Charles replied.  _ I’ll keep you downstairs, I don’t want to frighten the women.  _

“You astound me…” Sergeant Willis was still quite impressed it seemed. He’d gathered information, but had yet to read it for all the questions he was asking. “How did you do it, Mr. Carson?” 

“I could feel his fear,” Charles told the crowd. “It was like a thread of light, pulling me. And I could smell the peppermint oil.” 

Elsie, Mrs. Patmore, Bates, Anna, Daisy, and even Peter the hallboy looked on amazed. 

Thomas pulled the offending bottle of oil from his pocket. Mrs. Patmore bent over the side of his chair, taking it from him. 

“Well you managed to spill nearly all of it, but I should be able to do something with it,” She mused, pocketing it in her dirty apron. 

“You’ve ruined your livery too,” Elsie complained. “You’ll just have to use the spare I suppose.” 

Little did she know that Thomas was actually wearing the spare now, and that his true livery was in the process of being washed and ironed by the maids. 

“But even if you could sense and smell him, it was still a miracle to find him in the woods,” Sergeant Willis said. “It would have taken us hours, and by then it would have been too late I fear.” 

“Well I have to thank the Williams family for lending me their horse,” Charles explained. At once, Willis wrote the name down. “They mentioned there was an old estate in the wood, and it seemed to be in the direction of Thomas’ calls. I took a gamble, and it paid off.” 

“Well it’s beyond me,” Willis muttered as he wrote. Dr. Clarkson gave a grim smile as he began to rifle through his bad. 

“Very little is understood as of yet in the ways of guides and sentinels.” Dr. Clarkson explained. 

“But, will Thomas be alright?” Elsie asked, fretful. “Truly?” 

“Truly,” Dr. Clarkson chuckled. “He’ll need to rest his throat, and let the swelling and bruising go down, but he’ll soon be on the mend, you’ll see.” 

“I’m going to die from plague,” Thomas croaked, only to be shushed by Ms. Baxter and Elsie. 

“Don’t use your voice.” 

“Stop talking, Thomas.” 

“What is he talking about?” Dr. Clarkson asked Charles. 

“I have apparently offended his delicate sensibilities-” 

_ You threw me into a pile of rat shit!  _ Thomas thought angrily. 

“-by throwing him into a pile of ‘rat shit’, par verbatim.” Charles finished. “I made a hole in the hay loft, and below us was hay. Rats were in it, Thomas did not want to jump, I dragged him.” 

Thomas glared at him, cheeks going pink.  _ More like you threw me you great big beast-  _

“Oh stop whining,” Charles reprimanded the boy. Thomas sulked in his chair, “It was either that or get burnt alive, which one would you prefer.” 

Wordlessly, Thomas pointed to the fireplace. Charles let out an exasperated sigh. 

Dr. Clarkson just smiled, pulling out a few tinctures from his bag to hand them to Elsie. 

“He’s fine,” Dr. Clarkson said. “I won’t deny that jumping into a pile of rats is far from sanitary, but I’ve cleaned his wounds. Let me know if you see any rashes spreading, but I doubt they will. He’s just a little banged up. Give him this for his bruising, and a hot drink to relax his throat.”

Elsie took the tinctures from Dr. Clarkson at once. 

“I’ll make you a cuppa tea,” Mrs. Patmore declared, heading for the kitchen. 

“That’s a fine way-” 

“Shush Thomas!” Ms. Baxter placed a finger to his lips, refusing to let him utter another word less his make his throat more ill. 

_ That’s a fine way of putting being choked into unconsciousness,  _ Thomas thought moodily.  _ Tell them I had a roaring headache when I woke up. I need a Beechams.  _

_ “ _ He says that he had a terrible headache when he awoke after being strangled,” Charles said to Dr. Clarkson. “And to be frank, so did I. May we both have a beechams?” 

“I’ll fetch one for you right now,” Elsie said, before scooting around Thomas and Charles to head down the hall for her personal study. 

“I’ll take my leave,” Dr. Clarkson said. “But call me if you have any questions.” He left, but not before shaking Charles’ hand. In his wake, Sergeant Willis took over the flow of conversation. 

“Well, I’m afraid the fall was fatal to your kidnapper, so justice can’t be carried out.” Willis explained. “A broken neck, it seemed.” 

Elsie was back, two packets of beechams in hand. She arrived almost in time with Mrs Patmore, who’d brought an entire kettle to fill up everyone’s cup. 

“I think it’s justice fine enough,” Elsie declared, handing Thomas over his beechams. He swallowed it dry with a slight gag and twisted expression before guzzling his tea to get rid of the taste. Charles did the same, his tongue burning with the acid of the Beechams. By god it was wretched! 

_ The body,  _ Thomas was thinking.  _ Tell them I saw a corpse on the first floor-  _

“Thomas says he saw a body on the first floor,” Charles said. 

“Yes, those were the remains of a horse, not a human,” Willis explained. “As a matter of fact, there were several dead horses in the barn.” 

_ I can believe it, the way it stunk,  _ Thomas thought. 

“That property belonged to the Norbury family, but no one’s actually worked on that form for at least half a century. The man who kidnapped you was Jacob Norbury, the final descendant.” Willis explained. “He was known for causing trouble with the law. We searched the property and discovered what looked like a hovel in the old house. He must have been living there alone for quite some time. We found journals, sketch pads, the ramblings of a madman.” At this, Willis looked down at his notepad, flipping it back several pages. 

“He dictates that he saw Mr. Barrow at a club in York, and recognized him from Downton. Apparently it spurned him into a hostile frenzy. He was, in a word, obsessed with you.” Willis said. “He was stalking the abby for weeks now, but something…. well… perhaps we might speak in a private setting?” 

“Let’s go to my office,” Charles said. Thomas rose shakily up out of his chair, aided by Ms. Baxter. She escorted him down the hall, holding him patiently by the arm. Elsie held the door open to Charles’ study. 

Charles looked over his shoulder to find everyone else gawking, “Back to work!” He ordered at once. “Or is this a holiday and no one’s informed me?” 

At once, bodies began to scoot. No one wanted to meet his eyes, too shifty to be caught lazing about even in the late hour. 

Charles stepped into his office, the last of the group, and closed the door. 

“I’m sorry to make a scene,” Willis apologized, “But the fact of the matter is, his diary revealed quite a lot about why he was stalking Mr. Barrow. It isn’t exactly something that one should talk of, in front of women.” 

This ought to have been the cue for Elsie and Ms. Baxter to leave. But Charles had a feeling he knew where this was going and motioned for both of them to stay. Thomas was beginning to sweat in Charles’ visitor chair. 

_ Get ready to deny everything,  _ Thomas warned him.  _ He was like us.  _

_ Be calm, I am in control,  _ Charles assured him. 

“Ms. Baxter and Mrs. Hughes are both quite well informed regarding Mr. Barrow. They have my permission to stay,” Charles said. He noted that Baxter’s hands were tight upon Thomas’ shoulders. 

She was scared for him. He might not be able to read her mind but he could see it in her eyes. 

“Apparently last night, according to the date on this journal, Norbury was skulking around the outskirts of the abbey. He saw Mr. Barrow enter into a shed with someone, and apparently…” Willis tapped the pages with a pen. 

Thomas turned bright red. 

_ God help us  _ he thought in terror. 

_ Calm,  _ Charles replied.  _ Calm.  _

“I’m afraid I must ask you a difficult question Mr. Barrow,” Willis said. “Did you by chance entertain a young woman last night in the groundskeeper’s shed?” 

_ Play it up,  _ Charles thought, looking to Thomas with burning eyes.  _ Pretend it’s the truth.  _

Thomas dipped his head in shame, “It weren’t nothin’ like that-” 

“Well apparently it was because he saw you and was furious,” Willis said, speaking to Thomas as if he were a scolding parent. “I hate to tell you this, but Norbury was an Oscar Wilde sort, and he wanted you for himself. Whoever he saw you with, he was jealous of them. He didn’t put the name down, but it was clear he recognized the woman and that she’d offended him in some way.” 

“Who is this woman?” Charles demanded angrily, pretending to be furious. “You know perfectly well I don’t allow my staff to entertain romantic notions.” 

“Calm yourself, Mr. Carson, Mr. Barrow is a grown man,” Elsie was pale. She knew far well they were playing a dangerous game, betting on the words of a mad man long since dead. 

_ What if this is a game?  _ Thomas asked.  _ What if he knows the truth and he’s not saying?  _

_ Calm,  _ Chares thought again.  _ Stay calm and keep your head bowed.  _

Because if Thomas were to lift his head, Sergeant Willis would see it upon his face. 

“I… I think I know who it is,” Ms. Baxter spoke up. “She’s a friend of mine from the village. Am I right, Mr. Barrow?” 

My god, now all three of them were lying to the police. Who’d have ever thought the day would come? Ms. Baxter looked from Charles to Elsie, her expression clear: 

_ “What if this doesn’t work.”  _

Head bowed, Thomas gave a jerky nod. 

“Well, either way, you’re very lucky to have escaped his clutches unharmed. He wanted to do unspeakable things to you.” 

Thomas shuddered. It played off Willis well. 

“I hate to tell you these things,” Willis said again. 

“What a horrible man,” Elsie looked ready to be sick. 

“I urge you to remember the teachings of Christ, Mrs. Hughes” Willis said. Elsie was taken aback. “Norbury couldn’t change what he was, but that didn’t make it any less illegal.” 

“... I was referring to Norbury wanting to assault Thomas,” Elsie said. Was it just Charles or did she sound irritated at Willis. 

“Yes, well, you have a point there,” Willis re-capped his pen, folding his notebook and slipping it into his inner pocket. “I’ll have to take statements from all of you, I’m afraid. I know it’s late-” 

“Can it wait?” Charles asked. “I want my staff to return to normal as quickly as possible, and Barrow needs his rest.” 

“Tomorrow, I’ll want you both to come to the police station bright and early.” Willis said. 

“If his lordship can spare us, of course,” Charles said. 

“Very good. I’ll take my leave, then,” Willis put back on his police hat. He shook Charles’ hand with a warm smile. “Thank you, Mr. Carson, for being such an enormous help to us today. Mr. Barrow’s survival is, quite frankly, all your doing.” 

“Well….” Charles didn’t know quite what to say to that. He just wanted Willis gone by this point. After all that Anna and Mr. Bates had endured, the sight of his face often set fear and alarm into the staff. “Let’s just all it a day.” 

“Goodnight,” Sergeant Willis said. He left without another word, closing Charles’ office door behind him. Ms. Baxter opened her mouth to say something but Elsie held up a sharp hand. 

They waited for a solid minute, listening as the heavy footfalls vanished up the hall. With each receding step, it became easier for Charles to breath. 

In the newfound silence, Elsie turned on Thomas, with all the wrath of a provoked muskox. 

“Great god alive in the morning-” Elsie looked ready to go spare at any moment. “What were you doing in that shed, Thomas?” 

“Things,” he muttered unhelpfully. 

“I ought to give you a taste of the strap!” She said angrily. “You know full and well about how I feel on such things, and in particular on his Lordship’s property- Mr. Carson did you know about this?” 

Charles felt the sting of regret, which made him want to squirm. Elsie had no idea that he was the one who’d slept with Thomas. She clearly thought it some other man from the village. 

“I knew, yes,” Charles said. Elsie was taken aback.

“What do you mean, you knew? You approve of this?” Elsie said. 

“It’s not our business,” Charles reminded her. I knew of it, and that’s all that needs to be said. It’s just bad luck that that Norbury fellow was looking in.” 

“But who on earth was it?” Ms. Baxter asked Thomas. “I didn’t know you had a beau in the village.” 

Thomas just shook his head. Her question unanswered, Baxter looked dismayed. She patted him lovingly on the shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me, but you know you can, yes?” 

Thomas nodded. 

_ Not this time,  _ He thought miserably. 

“Let’s say no more about it now. It’s late, and we ought to be returning home. Thomas needs his rest, and so do I. After today, I feel a hundred years old.” Charles said. He didn’t want Thomas suffering any more than he needed to, and Baxter’s comments were clearly making him gloomy. 

“Very good, Charlie, I’ll inform the undertakers,” Elsie muttered, fetching her hat and coat with an irritated look. She would still need a bit of soothing, it seemed. 

**  
  
  
**

The walk home was an awkward one, with Elsie speaking mostly to herself while Charles and Thomas remained absolutely quiet. 

“To think, you could have been seen- you were seen!” She blurted out, gesturing fruitlessly at the cold night air. “But what if it wasn’t Norbury, what if it were the groundskeeper, or Mr. Carson, or me!” She turned to Thomas, affronted. “I know your inclinations, Thomas, and I’m not saying you’re wrong for having them, but that shed was an incredibly risky move.” 

“No one was nearby,” Thomas mumbled. 

“Oh indeed? And I suppose Norbury just popped in out of thin air!” 

Thomas grimaced, head bowed again. 

“Well now you’ve gone and stuck your foot in it, good and proper,” She complained, back to rambling to herself. “Thank god Willis is off the stink. That’d been a nightmare… but I don’t want you smoking until your throat it back to normal. Don’t think I didn’t notice there was blood in your teacup.” 

Thomas just nodded his consent. 

“Well… I suppose it can’t be helped.” She paused, looking at Thomas warily. “But who is it? The man you know. Do I know him?” 

After a moment, Thomas gave a jerky nod. 

_ I’m a slut for sleeping with your husband,  _ he thought miserably. 

_ No you’re not,  _ Charles thought at once,  _ She’s not meant to understand.  _

“Elsie, let it go,” Charles commanded her. At his word, she said no more. 

**  
  
  
  
**

They returned to the house at half past eleven, with Charles and Thomas immediately being sent to bathe by Elsie. They trudged upstairs, one after another, and stripped off their ruined clothes to take a long hot soak. Charles went first, with Thomas wanting to lay down for a moment. It seemed his head was still spinning. 

As Thomas bathed, Charles took their clothes downstairs to deposit them in a sack for cleaning. 

Elsie was in the kitchen, making a small kettle of tea. She had a pensive look upon her face. 

“The maids will have a time of it,” Charles said with a sigh, heaving the sack to the front door; they’d take it to the abby tomorrow. “We’ll have to use the spares.” 

“Those were the spares,” Elsie said. 

Charles paused at the kitchen table, looking over to note her expression was oddly blank. 

“I went to check the cupboards before we left,” Elsie said. “The spares were gone. My newest maid Gloria said she’d washed your livery and Thomas’ today. That they’d been dusty.” 

She carefully poured herself a cup of tea, not meeting Charles’ eye. For a moment, a long silence dragged on between them. Overhead, the pipes groaned in clear warning that Thomas had turned off the taps. 

“... It was you, wasn’t it,” Elsie murmured. She looked Charles dead in the eye now, calm and unwavering. 

Charles could have denied it, could have batted it aside and tried to change the subject, but that would mean lying to his wife. Lying to the woman he loved above all others. 

And that just would not do. 

“... Yes,” He said. 

“That explains why you didn’t come home,” Elsie mused, stirring in a spoonful of sugar to her tea. “And why that Norbury fellow was so angry. He must have seen you both.” 

“I’m afraid so,” Charles said. 

The silence dragged on, with Elsie taking a sip of her tea to add just a tiny bit more sugar. She’d always liked it unbearably sweet. 

“Are you angry?” Charles asked. 

“No,” Elsie shook her head slowly, her long gray curls slowly beginning to come undone from her bun after a long day working. “But I suppose I am a bit jealous. I keep wondering if you love one of us more than the other.” 

“It’s hard to explain,” he supposed she had a very good point. “But I love you both in different ways. Does that help?” 

“It does,” Elsie said. She even smiled at him. “But will you kiss me now? Just so I know.” 

At once, Charles crossed the kitchen to take Elsie in his arms. She lay her head upon his chest for a moment, simply smelling his scent, before tilting her chin upward so that he could kiss her sweetly upon the mouth. 

These were the moments he lived for. The moments where he was surrounded by those he loved. 

Elsie lay her head upon his chest again, a tiny smile on her thin lips. 

“Tell him I’m not angry,” She murmured. 

“I will,” Charles said. “He was ashamed earlier. He even called himself a slut inside his head-” 

“Oh-!” Elsie scoffed, smacking Charles lightly on the chest as she pulled away. “As if. Thomas Barrow is many things, but he’s not painted in scarlet.” 

“I’ll let him know,” Charles said with a smile. He heard the gurgle and rush, an indication that water was moving through the pipes. Clearly Thomas had drained the bath. “He must be done with his bath. I’ll go check on him.” 

“Get him in bed, the proper way-!” The added with a wary finger. “He needs to sleep. And put that ointment on his bruises.” 

“I will, I will-” Charles took the tin as he went up the stairs, his vision slowly going fuzzy in the dark. Thomas had turned out the lights. 

Charles knocked on Thomas door, entering it to find that it was vacant. The windows, however, were wide open letting in a chilly breeze. 

_ Thomas?  _ Charles wondered. 

_ Roof,  _ was all Thomas said. Charles went over to the window and stuck his head out to look up. Sure enough, an ancient ladder lead to the roof where one could put spare washing if they so pleased. Wary of falling, Charles climbed over the window ledge and inched his way up, feeling like a teenager again for all his escapades. 

His reward was the sight of Thomas on the roof, clad in nothing but a towel. He was smoking, his black hair lightly toweled and wispy at the edges. 

“What did Mrs. Hughes say?” Charles murmured, just a tad disproving. Thomas stuck his tongue out, a clear sign of what he thought on the matter. 

Charles sat down next to Thomas, shrugging off his jacket so that he might wrap it around Thomas’ shoulders. With nothing to his name but a towel, his battering and bruising was unnervingly evident. It made Charles feel all the more protective of him. 

“Practically naked too,” Charles said. 

“Not like you haven’t seen it,” Thomas murmured. With a calm and loving hand, Charles wrapped his arm about Thomas’ shoulder. 

Thomas sniffed, took a drag of his cigarette, and said. “I thought I was doomed.” 

“Never,” Charles whispered the word into his temple. 

“She doesn’t know.” Thomas looked to Charles, eyes watery in the cold night air. “She has no idea bout you an’ me. An’ if she did she’d be horrified.” 

“Women cannot understand the love between two men,” Charles soothed him. “But she does know, Thomas. And she does not consider you any the darker for it. This situation is personal, private. Other people aren’t meant to understand it.” 

At this, Thomas gave an ugly scoff. He looked back out over the hills in dismay. “No one understands it. It’s always so black an’ white to them. You heard Sergeant Willis. Oscar Wilde or Jack the Ripper, they don’t care. If it isn’t normal, it isn’t right.” 

“Thomas, whatever Norbury was, he was by choice,” Charles said. “It had nothing to do with his inclination towards men like us.” 

“I dunno-” Thomas tilted his head in wonder. “He was kinda funny in the head anyways. Maybe he was mental.” 

“Maybe. But the two are just coincidences. They aren’t the same. Norbury chose to act the way he did, even if he was a little peculiar.” 

“An’ me?” Thomas rested his cheek upon his knees, somber. “Did I choose to be the way I am? I’d give anything to be married like you are. To be settled. To have people like me.” 

Snuggling closer, Charles tucked a stray hair away from Thomas’ beautiful eyes. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to be a little more friendly now would it?” 

“Maybe.” Thomas gave a non committal shrug. “I don’t think I’m very likeable to people here.” 

“You’re likeable to me,” Charles assured him. Thomas didn’t seem convinced, though. In an effort to fully convince him, Charles held him all the more close, so that he could whisper directly into his ear. 

“I thought myself above other men,” he admitted. “But now I see what I truly am. I have a responsibility to protect you, to keep you safe. So that’s what I shall do. You’re my guide in this world, and I am yours. And now, we shall never be parted.” 

For a moment, Thomas said nothing. Charles might have wondered at one point in time what Thomas was thinking, but now he needn’t bother. Small flickering images passed by his eyes. Of Charles as a young man. Of a grave without a name. 

**  
  
  
  
**

“Death will part us eventually,” Thomas said. 

Charles whispered into his ear. “You’d be surprised.” 


End file.
